


Violet

by habitualsarcasm



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: (both of which are dubiously consensual), Dream Manipulation, Hate Crime (just in case), M/M, Mind Games, Mind Links, Mystery, Plug-and-Play Sexual Interfacing, Secret Identity, Soundwave is a little shit, Starscream being Starscream, lesson one in Being Your Creepiest Self, tagging is thinking way too hard about this story, weird ass shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/habitualsarcasm/pseuds/habitualsarcasm
Summary: Starscream is not losing his mind, but he didn't mean to give it away, either.If there's a way to infiltrate you, sway your mind and complicate you.





	1. Roots

**Author's Note:**

> Important note brought to my attention (thank you ^.^): all scenes written in italics are flashbacks which occur prior to the other story events.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't throw stones at me. Don't tell anybody. Trouble finds me._ \- Roots by Imagine Dragons

It's not like he had a choice. 

Starscream will admit (if only to himself) that his desire to not-die influences his thinking greatly. The formula is simple--the more danger his life is in, the more logical he's like to be. 

Surviving by his lonesome with three Predacons on the loose--Predacons who just so happen to loathe the fact he is alive--Predacons he barely escaped from (and burned out a thruster in the process)--does not sound appealing. Starscream would much rather keep his spark in its chamber and all his limbs in their proper places, thank you. Thus, his course of action was to find allies--temporary, permanent, he couldn't care less.

And as much as the seeker hates aligning himself with the Autobots for the time being, he doesn't see any other options until he can amass his own followers. Megatron's legion has disbanded (whatever is left of it, anyway). He assumes Shockwave is either no more or is in severely wounded condition, given the last he saw the scientist. Quite honestly, he'd rather not work with him-- _for_ him--again. Starscream supposes his one viable choice is for the best. He finds Knock Out irritating, but the mech is probably the least offensive of his former...er, comrades. He also isn't dead. The same cannot be said for most others.

That the Prime had given his life to save the planet was a conflicting piece of information, once Starscream made an attempt to contact the group. Though he wants to scoff at the selflessness, he can't help but appreciate the opportunity this grants--that he might one day revisit the glory of Vos, or even greet another seeker. (So. He keeps the scoff at bay. Vos will always hit home, in a manner of speaking.)

Starscream can tread cautiously when he needs to, and he does, in the beginning stages of alliance. It is then the Autobots are most skittish about his intentions. He is kept under very secure watch. Even now, after at least four orns, the comradery remains tentative. He can sacrifice being in a position of power so long as he can then fly under the radar--so far, he is in neither of those situations, and it frustrates him. But he supposes that now is as good a time as any to develop patience, the lesser of the two evils--either that or lose his spark to Predaking. Or Darksteel. Or Skylynx. Whichever gets there first. (Starscream nearly shivers just thinking about it. Nearly. He does have an image to keep up.)

The circumstances are not as rough as they could be. Given, it's not great, but it could be worse. He doesn't get along with the femme and the Wreckers. Definitely not. They poke at him wherever they can, either still sore over the loss of their teammate or out of distaste. Starscream reacts--oh, yes, he understands them, but he doesn't sympathize. He hopes for their sake they don't expect an apology. One is not forthcoming.

Still, the seeker is not above semi-pleasant social interaction. The medics (when together) aren't awful. (He can't stand them individually for too long). He's studied science; he can follow the conversations--participate, when he feels like it. Starscream doesn't mind Magnus. He's quite used to military operation, though the respect is a little new to have to put into practice. He has not exactly associated with the youngest two yet and is not sure if he wants to. (It's not that Starscream doesn't consider himself relatively young, it's just that he doesn't think they have common interests.) Knock Out has already formed a little circle with them, which is unsurprising. 

Pfft, racing alts.

He drifts around, to fill his spare time. When they don't have him assigned to assist with something, he flits aimlessly about the consoles on the bridge. He reads the same thousand files on his private tab--which the Autobots allowed him to retain. He sorts through the collections of datapads on the Nemesis for the millionth time. He goes for a flight without leaving the area he's confined to. Talks to himself, given there is no one to talk _at_ anymore. Fine-tunes his systems (preening, it is definitely preening, as there's nothing he can possibly tune to a further extent).

It's boring, to say the least. There are no Eradicons to train or Vehicons to take out his frustration on. He can't pilfer from his stash of high-grade unless he wants the Autobots to know where it is, though it'd be grand to savour some. He can't engage full thrust and throttle himself into a jetstream current, or go vertical until his tanks churn, or _shoot anything._

There's not even a clear hierarchy. (Speculation is, it's a toss-up between Magnus and Ratchet. Well, he knows which one he's more afraid of, anyway.)

Starscream is restless and exhausted at the same time, however that's possible. His recharge suffers, and it's not uncommon for him to walk into the rec room at this hour and grab energon.

It is uncommon for others to be there when he does. But they've noticed how frequently he refuels, apparently, if they've posted a sentry here. Smokescreen narrows his optics from the corner as the seeker enters, bordering on hostile, but for now, merely standoffish. Starscream has zero desire to play that game, not when he's tasked with protecting his own aft around the clock. As much as he'd love to explain (in less-than-friendly terms) why he's doing this--recharge is not an option, his frame is terribly inefficient with energy consumption, he's stressed--Starscream takes his half-full cube and leaves without a word. His chronometer informs him it's nigh time to get rest. Ha, rest. As if.

And Smokescreen trails him almost back to his quarters before desisting.

For the most part, every nearby presence is wary of him (not too different from the usual). He is wary in return, with the exception of the nagging itch in the side of his processor--well, it _started_ as an itch. 

There it goes again. In fact, that might be one reason why he's spending a bit less time talking with the others. Perhaps also why the seeker is overly cautious around the Autobots.

Starscream thinks to bother the medics about it, but he can't convince himself it's that serious. All he knows is that it's a tiny little nudge, creeping into his EM field. It hasn't startled him, surprisingly--at first it's barely there enough to notice. Recently, it's been wandering more in his field, brushing the outer edges of his conscious, as if waiting for an avenue of entry--in subtle ways, obviously. He's allowed to infer. Which is what it does now, grazing in and out of his field, in the not-quite anxious manner it's had from the beginning. Urgent, that's the word.

It's only been there for a little over an orn, about the same time they trusted him enough to let him walk about the ship freely. (Really, do they think he plans on attacking them from the inside out? Ludicrous. There's no one within his reach to persuade into helping him do _that_. They're not giving him enough credit as a strategist here.) He wonders if it's a plant, to monitor him even as they've made it clear his location isn't being monitored. But that doesn't make much sense; it's not a very Autobot thing to do.

Starscream is more curious about it than suspicious. It can't be a virus--where the frag would he have picked it up from?--and he firmly believes he's not going crazy.

He paces his quarters (the Autobots have been strangely lenient enough to let him keep those, though his collection of half-finished projects was confiscated), focusing on the tiny intrusion. It tries to dart out of his attention, receding to the edges of his awareness, but he doesn't lose track of it.

Now that he's completely focused on this annoying little thing, Starscream, for whatever reason, decides to play around with it. He's not entirely sure why he does what he does, even thinks it could become a huge mistake after he does it, but he still does. (Is it any wonder his plans go awry?)

 _You can come closer_ , he thinks, intending to communicate this to the presence. It works. (It always _works_ , but the consequences of something _working_ , that's why plans hit the smelting pit.)

A surge of gratefulness shoots through his sensornet and he shudders--it's not a feeling coming from him. As if in apology, it quiets, and a little weight settles somewhere in the back of his processor. He fights the compulsion to shudder again. 

It stays that way--silent--lilting to and fro in his inner field. He almost finds it comforting. No one breaches his field here or graces him with theirs; Starscream is close to lamenting it. Not quite, but close. Ah, well. Worse has come and gone, as he's been fond of reminding himself these past few solar cycles. 

He scowls at his expansive recollection of 'worse'.

The seeker leans against the wall of his quarters which harbors the door, listening for conversation and leisurely taking sips of decent energon. No, really, it's decent--he's had energon that isn't. Not a pleasant experience. So are his thoughts consumed by something else (the time he wasted becoming unaffiliated with either side, scrounging for sustenance). And still something else as he overhears distant interaction. Someone is not happy.

\- - - - -

_What he is about to do is wrong. He knows this, but it's his job he has to protect. He can't neglect duty, however much he wants to. It is a carefully bred and cautiously wielded mission he cannot fail._

_Someone's caught onto him. He's not sure who they are or how they've done it, but his old directive is no longer his priority. His new one is self-issued. Probably a council member, or one of their underground corporations, found some evidence of the trail he inevitably leaves behind. They will catch up with him eventually, and when they do, where will his ability go?_

_Straight into the hands of the enemy. He can't let that happen. The only way to prevent it might be even worse than letting it happen, but it is a last-ditch effort made by a mech who is already a goner. He's got to give it away to someone; there is only one way._

_Not many things can disgust him anymore. Still, as he enters the house, it sickens him to see so many mechs and femmes lounging about. Some are in corners with customers--this is no high-class establishment. He doesn't yet know who he's going to impart this on. The mission itself is not spontaneous, but the choice must be. Doing any research whatsoever leaves another piece for his enemies to find and follow. So he does not have a preconceived option, but he has requirements. It has to be someone who is not going to pay for a removal, that's for sure. The whole point is to pass this part of him on and keep it functional; if the newspark he intends to create dies, that point's void. (If the people after him ever find it, it dies anyway. He swallows against the lump in his throat tubing.)_

_He sees the native femme and unfortunately, she's mark one. He does not want to do this._

_He has no other option._

_Natives are odd--at the very least--and he's seen some example of what they're capable of. Bit scary. But they exercise unparalleled control--unheard of, when possessing that much 'influence'. She is the best choice by far. Usually, a native won't opt for removal--any newspark is a part of them, no matter its secondary origin. The decision is based on clear morals. That fulfills one of few requirements he's come up with._

_He pays for her time slot, briskly, and follows her to one of the rooms. She is interesting for the fact that while she doesn't seem to enjoy the path of employment she's on (like the truly debauched), she is dedicated to making it work. She immediately caters to him. He wonders why she's here, before he remembers what a rough time the natives are having (_ because _they're a bit scary). He second-guesses which one he's picked. He does not want the newspark to have so many difficulties._

_They've already started by the time he doubts. He does not limit his options by telling himself 'there is no going back', because there is, there always is, and he will leave within a klik if he so chooses. She doesn't like the closeness of having someone play with her spark. No major tells give that fact away, but he figures it out. It's in the way her optics glimmer and her EM field expands--a warning not to hurt her. He knows she can follow through on that warning if he so much as briefly thinks to put her life at risk._

_Natives can read processors, after all. Which is why he's been rerouting her attempts to his set-up. She'd have found him out if he weren't a techno, most certainly._

_His choice solidifies; for whatever reason he can't seem to come up with at the moment. He truly is so sorry he has to do this to her, and therefore tries to make it good--keeps everything sweet and slow. Hopes it doesn't hurt her more for that. And while she is hitting her high, he triggers the sedative to simulate being knocked offline, which is not uncommon during overload. The data slug slips into a port just behind her right shoulder, a medical-access port. He erases all error function pertaining to the access from her systems._

_She's limp in his servos and he has to work quickly. The sedative won't be active for long (really, how much of it can one fit in a data slug). Convincing her systems to keep quiet would be easy if she weren't a native. She will absolutely notice if he does, and if she notices this is a purposeful offlining, there is good chance she'll do a full scan. Find his spark signature. He can't have that. He will not chance a removal, regardless of how likely or unlikely the possibility is._

_He opens her chamber manually--he feels the worst to see she has no latches past the basic ones. He hates places like these, the seedy underground houses. Rarely do they allow more._

_It's like he is breaking some unwritten law. Primus, he's done some bad things, but he never expected it to come to this kind of personal violation. His own spark glows yellow and white, dim with exhaustion save for that one energy output. The speeding blue flicker he has to part with (the only part that feels alive), the one way he's identified. Her spark is terrifying in its intensity, and if he has any more reason to fear the natives it's this. It is unstable, churning at a rapid-fire pace, burning indigo and violet. Generator-class._

_He presses close to her and trips himself over the edge. Even mid-overload, he fights the urge to stop and leave her without the burden. Primus knows she doesn't need it_ here.

_His spark gathers itself and bleeds into hers. Under most circumstances, a mech or femme would dissipate the building signature and re-circulate the charge. Newsparks are not common on Cybertron right now; it's preferential to most that Primus develops those lights of life. He cannot say he disagrees._

_He consciously smothers his growing contribution with a dampening code before projecting into her spark chamber. Too late to leave, he thinks, watching the energy of her spark absorb and react with it._

_He can't really see it. He'd have to stay through every stage of development in order to. Maybe he wants to, but he'll be dead by then anyway. The thought is somber._

_What he does see to signify that the newspark is there is his little blue flicker, stained with purple but still recognizable. He sighs, weary. He'll never talk to Cybertron again, or bury himself in a conversation with machinery, or slip through the enemy's systems without a glitch. The only comfort he draws from this is that the newspark_ will.

_The femme stirs, protocols closing her chestplates for her as she comes out of her offlined state. He turns away, unable to bring himself to look at her. His firewalls are still intact, redirections in place--and his current state of mind is not accessible. This makes it easier to pretend he is in a post-haze._

_"I can't stay," he says, and ventures a glance anyway because he's a sucker for pain. Her optics reach what feels like his soul as she nods. "I have to go somewhere."_

_She smiles, a sincere smile that makes his spark twist. Thoughts fly through his processor now--maybe if he weren't about to meet the Allspark, he'd talk to her and find himself falling in love. He would see the newspark reach term and teach it all that it can do with the gift--the curse--it's been given._

_He shakes his head. Without the impending doom, he wouldn't be here. He'd never have seen her. The spark would not exist._

_"Thank you," she says. His intakes hitch as if she knows. That's impossible, she can't know (not if she truly is being rerouted to the inactive parts of his processor as planned). It's just those optics, omniscient and deep, the same pulsing colour of her spark. He moves quickly, darting without looking back. He puts as much distance between himself and the house as he can, and lest anyone paid to follow him dares pry, all record of his visit is gone. They wouldn't know who he's chosen, anyhow._

_That's not to say they don't try to get the information from him, when they do capture him. He had a feeling it was high-society. The paid thugs are a dead giveaway (ha, even as the end closes in, he's got a sense of humour). And they're the very worst of the worst; they know exactly how to draw out his death. It is more acceptable this way, he thinks--he's so prepared for the end that they couldn't surprise him if they wanted to._

_So he bears through all the torment just as he's been trained to, all the interrogation methods. The brand against his plating, the shock system hooked to his processor. They search for his sign, the indication of what he can do: that little blue flicker to tell the world he's a techno. Laying there against the rusted, stiff metal of his torture device, he knows it's over as the scans come in negative._

_He does not have it anymore. Whether they assume he chose to pass it on with procreation, or whether they assume he is the wrong mech, he doesn't know. He does not get the chance to know before a drill is set to high power just above his spark. He offers one last, silent petition: that Cybertron keep the newspark safe. The drill pierces through the tired, conflicted, white-gold energy and settles him into blackness._

_"Illegal parts trade," is what the authorities say when they find him as a hollow shell, strung up underneath the docks, drill holes through most of his plating and biomechanics removed. The public eye bats, winks the slightest bit. The shipyards and the mines murmur at that story. His mission was never meant to end with his life intact, but it doesn't matter. He's done his job. The controversy has spread its roots._

_They're waking up._

\- - - - -

Bumblebee taps the comm device. It is ancient. The ruin of the base here is strewn with half-broken things that may or may not prove useful; one of those is this instrument. Like the rest of the team, he is very much occupied with replenishing what they've lost during the war, beginning with the basics. Energy storage, solid communication, proper medical equipment, and anything and everything residential. It will take eons to get Cybertron back to a decent state, but that doesn't matter in the present--for now, they're going to make it _better._

It is still unclear as to what purpose this particular base served. They only found it in a random dialogue--over a thousand years old--wedged deep in an archived report. At some point it was a secret, secure, Autobot location. From the already-greyed bodies (he doesn't know them, but his spark aches at the sight) Bee can tell it wasn't secure for very long. 

The device doesn't seem to be in functioning order. At least, not wholly functioning order--it is spitting a large amount of static on one of its frequencies, and the rest greet him with silence. Long-range communications on the Nemesis are down, with no hope of reboot yet (long-range as in intergalactic, not planet-wide. The latter they don't have an issue with). Maybe the unit could reach someone out there, after a little tweaking.

He subspaces it and moves on. He has yet to collect the data from any operational computers, and he'll be reporting back to the Nemesis in just a few kliks.

\- - - - -

"It just gives me the creeps," Smokescreen huffs. "The whole thing. You know he can't be serious."

Ratchet looks up briefly. "You weren't here the first time he intended to switch sides."

"But you can't just switch sides," the young mech argues. "Not this fast, anyway! I don't know. I just, I get a really bad feeling about this. I've _had_ a bad feeling. Last time Screamer had anything to do with us, it was to scamp around base and steal the Omega Keys--"

Ratchet sighs. "We're all aware that Starscream's interests are purely self-serving--well, most of us. No one is trusting him, Smokescreen."

Smokescreen drags a servo over his faceplates, "I know, I know. I just don't think we shouldn't be keeping an eye on him. So far he's said barely anything about whatever resources are on this ship and--I guarantee you he's got secrets if he was Megatron's second-in-command _that_ long."

"We are keeping an eye on him," Ratchet mutters, returning to his work with audials open. Groundbridge technology is no small matter, and it takes a great deal of concentration to make any difference.

"I mean where he's going and what he's doing."

"Which is as pointless as trying to see what he's thinking," Ratchet replies, "if we don't give him any leeway, he has no reason to treat the situation differently than if he were a prisoner. As much as it pains me to suggest, think like Starscream. If you didn't think giving information would help you, would you do it?"

Smokescreen's shoulders drop. "Hh, no. I just wish--I wish there were an easier way to handle this thing. Something less risky."

"We all do," says the medic. 

\- - - - -

"Did you get the mainframe settled for it?" Wheeljack asks. Bulkhead frowns at him.

"You asked me that yesterday. Not yet, though. Waiting on some circuit work. I told you, remember? 'Cee's on that job."

"No," Wheeljack says, trying to recall the conversation and exhaling sharply when he can't.

"Yeah. You alright?"

Jackie shrugs. "I'll be fine. Probably something Ratchet can take care of."

"A bug?"

"I guess."

"'Kay," Bulkhead says, unsure. "But you're positive?"

Wheeljack looks over his shoulder at the Nemesis. Spires jut into the air from its position on the ground. "It's just the small stuff. You know, like if I've already asked you a question or not. Or where I put things. Maybe need a de-frag or some slag like that."

"De-frag doesn't sound too bad for me either. When do you think Ratchet'll have the time?"

"Not anytime _soon_ ," Jackie snorts, "with how screwed that bridge is, it'll be a while. I'm good enough for now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is an experimental first chapter, kinda like the first chapter of "Magic". Order of operations is "Addiction", then "Magic", then this one, but I wanted to see if we like things on a darker scale? Please review, let me know if you want me to continue this one in the near future. Love you all ^.^


	2. Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sing to me. I know you're there. You could be my sanity - bring me peace, sing me to sleep._ \- Nightingale by Demi Lovato

The transmission pings through while most of them are in recharge, save Wheeljack, who is out on patrols, and Magnus, who is managing communications. Magnus picks up the communicator, perturbed by all the beeping and pinging. It's only when he notes the frequency that he calls the others to conference--this is coming from a registered Cybertronian spacecraft. The origin is uncertain, but the channel is high-wave and designated for communication between massive ships. Which means there's one out there; one contacting them, or rather, the device.

"Do we know who it is?" Arcee is the first to speak, prompting more information that Magnus does not have. His input is rejected by the device. Ratchet extends a hand.

"Bah. Encrypted," the medic frowns, "I'll take a look."

It is of equal, or perhaps more importance, that Shockwave correspondingly disappears. In the midst of discussing their options and assigning Ratchet to deconstruct the message, Wheeljack comms them with the news.

"Hey," Jackie greets. 

"Is this imperative?" Magnus questions.

"No, I'm just checkin' up on everyone. How's the solar cycle goin'? No kidding," Wheeljack quips. "There's a problem out here. No activity in any of the labs. Not good; looks like Shockwave, Predaking, and the cronies went underground. Packed up and moved out real fast. I'm callin' in to see if I'm missin' something."

"We received an encrypted transmission," Magnus replies.

Bulkhead fills the rest in. "Deep-space, one of the big ships but we don't know if it's one of ours. Ratch is working on cracking it. Would be a great time to have Raf here."

"Ah, scrap. Could be a 'con if Shockwave's MIA," Wheeljack snorts. "I'll keep an eye out for 'em but this could get ugly."

"Don't engage," Magnus warns. The others watch quietly from their positions around the holoscreen projector. Knock Out suppresses a yawn.

"Yeah, 'cause of the truce? Kinda figured. Anyway. Comm ya when I'm comin' back," Wheeljack assures, and cuts the feed. Arcee's brow ridges draw close together.

"Shockwave and the Predacons haven't been hostile but maybe they've been waiting for allies. I don't think it's a good plan to count them as neutral anymore," she suggests, voice grim.

Bumblebee's vents cycle. "We haven't really attempted talking to them. They might be forthcoming with their intentions."

"Doubt it," Bulkhead says. "And we'd better find them fast. 'Cons in large numbers--that spells trouble for us."

"There's no way they're talking to us," Smokescreen agrees. "Option two is infiltrate the enemy."

"We don't know if they're enemies. What I'm trying to establish is whether we're offensive or defensive in approaching this, not which side they're on," Bee states.

He gets one or two annoyed static crackles from around the room. One of them is courtesy of Smokescreen, and he doesn't register where the other one is coming from.

"It has significant impact on the decision, however," Magnus argues. Arcee nods.

"If Shockwave is unclear about where he stands, we can leave it at that, but things change if he's reorganizing the movement. That puts us at risk."

"Not throwing shade, honest. If Shockwave is taking over, it's Starscream's fault. Screamer and Megatron both skipped out on those guys. Doesn't command fall to Shockwave after Megatron and Screamer?" Smokescreen asks.

Bee sighs. "Of course it does, but why lead Decepticons that don't exist? We can't be sure of anything yet. Ratchet, have you made any progress on the transmission?"

"No. Venturing a guess, I'd say there are forty layers of encryption, maybe more. You just had to find _this_ communicator," the medic grumbles.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying that base we found was definitely special operations of some kind. Look at this. Twenty-five keys, manual dialogue entry, bypass routes. This is top of the line and we don't have _the data to move decryption along_ ," Ratchet says, pointedly. It is a halfhearted jab that does not go ignored.

"Well, excuse me," Knock Out drawls, "I work in the same place you do and codes aren't exactly useful for putting mechs together."

"You could work on getting Screamer to spill," Smokescreen mutters.

"Smokescreen," Arcee warns, but Knock Out just shakes his helm and sets his jaw.

"As if I haven't been. He's still sore over the whole 'switching sides' scenario. Moot point, I think, now that he's in the same boat."

Ratchet snorts, and Knock Out barely contains his grin. This is why he rather likes the Autobots; he can take literally every opportunity to crack a joke and someone will appreciate it.

"Starscream holds grudges but I still think he'd talk to a 'con," adds Bulkhead. The tone is one of disbelief and the red medic glares at the Wrecker. This is why he does not like the Autobots.

"Former."

"You sure?" Smokescreen does not say it in the most standoff-ish way, but it isn't quite playful either.

"He must be rubbing off on you all. I haven't had a single day without someone suggesting an ulterior motive," Knock Out snaps. "If you're going to spend all this time bickering about my allegiance, you might as well guarantee whatever Shockwave is up to will succeed."

"Moving past this," Ultra Magnus booms, "I think it would be beneficial if you contributed your opinion. You and Ratchet have worked with Shockwave extensively, yes? You know how he operates."

The air leaving Knock Out's vents is audible. "Alright. If you really want to know, I don't think we should do anything except get more information."

"How are we going to do that? Shockwave is too smart to fall for a planted spy," Arcee says.

"You want to learn what Shockwave and the Predacons are doing, and you want to know if you can trust Starscream. Well. Send him to go find out."

Bulkhead splutters. "What?"

"Send the 'con to team up with the other 'con, great idea," Smokescreen barks, "you know this is a legitimate problem, right?" It is only just after that he feels Arcee's disapproval; he definitely could have let KO explain.

Knock Out does not rise to the bait. "Shockwave is least likely to be suspicious of Starscream. Starscream doesn't have many redeeming qualities, but he knows how to watch his back, and he's not going to sacrifice the advantage he has here to go frolicking around with Shockwave. They hate each other. Maybe giving Starscream something to do would get you somewhere on the data encryption. I don't know. But that's just coming from a 'con," he spits, "so do whatever. I'd rather reconfigure the dimensional map."

The Aston Martin storms out of the conference sector (they're in the sector adjacent to the command center, as of now). Bee brings a hand to his faceplates and directs unamused optics at his comrades. "Was that really necessary?"

Bulkhead at least has the capacity to look sheepish. "I didn't mean for it to escalate."

The yellow-and-black mech presses derma together in a tight line. "I know. But it is _not_ fair to gang up on him," he insists. "He had a suggestion. And I don't think it was a terrible one."

Arcee shakes her helm at him. "Bee. I'm with you on treating Knock Out like part of the team, but sending Starscream out? We can trust him to stay here like a leech, and that's about it. Shockwave and the Predacons planning any Decepticon resurgence would immediately sway him, you know that. Even if he's offered a _piece_ of power. Starscream knows enough about us as it is. Sending him is equivalent to giving Shockwave multiple plans for surprise attacks. Using him as a dual agent is not just an unsafe equation, it's one that doesn't work."

Magnus resets his vocal components. "Though I see your point, there is good and bad potential. In terms of strategy, Knock Out's suggestion appears the most conducive to our purposes. Starscream causes tension among our ranks. We would eliminate his presence here, give him opportunity to earn trust and hopefully draw information from Shockwave in the process. If Starscream betrays us, then we know where his loyalties lie--and if he does not, we can assume our ally to have proven himself."

"We already know. He's loyal to his own reflection, barely," Smokescreen huffs, "and I don't want to risk any of our lives just to make him feel cozy."

"Technically we are risking lives at any angle we choose," Magnus interjects.

"Okay, pause. I'd like to know who's for this so far?" Bee asks. Magnus nods. Ratchet raises one hand from the console, but keeps his thoughts unshared. Bumblebee counts himself with the tally.

"And against?"

Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen look at each other, and then at Bumblebee, all in affirmation. He grimaces. "Back to square one, and minus Knock Out. Alright. What can we safely assume about Shockwave retreating like this?"

"Refuel before you keep going," Ratchet says. "I ought to. Running on an empty tank might incline you to say things you don't mean," he continues. Smokescreen does not miss the glance directed at him, but thankfully the others do.

"Good idea," Bee supports. He and Arcee are the first to exit, swiftly followed by Magnus. Ratchet remains, clicking away at the keyboard. Bulkhead and Smokescreen linger.

"I feel kinda bad," Bulkhead admits. "We oughta apologise, huh."

"Not now," Ratchet murmurs from his spot at the console. The communicator is connected to it, screen effectively lit up as code scrawls across the monitor and the device. "Take this coming from a medic. Let Knock Out finish reconfiguring the map. Then feel free to patch things. I'd say he deserves some time to cool down."

Bulkhead's helm sinks the slightest bit. Smokescreen rubs at his neck cabling, but says nothing until he and Bulkhead are walking out. "Honestly, Bulk, I don't know what to do. Starscream coming to us--I get suspicious of him and then I get like that with KO by association. I'm trying," he groans, vexed, "and there's--Primus, I just have a weird, bad feeling. Do you feel like that? Like it's in the air," Smokescreen shivers.

"You got to relax--you're winding yourself up. I get it," Bulkhead says. 

"I don't know if I can."

"Aw, you'll get there. We've always got one situation after another to deal with, been that way since the beginning of the war. Jackie can back that up. Don't stress it. Just keep it cool around Knocks. You don't even have to talk to Starscream if you don't want to, you know that."

"Thanks," Smokescreen exhales. He stretches, shoulder joints aching with cold and optics a little fuzzy. He motions Bulkhead on and resets his optical feed. His chilled plating suddenly warms back to its normal temperature, as if he's done a system purge--and that bad feeling he has gets just the smallest bit worse.

\- - - - -

Starscream kicks the wall. "Fragging Pit!" he snarls, wings hiked high.

This is his fault, says the niggling inner critic.

"I wanted to fly, is that so much to ask?"

No, critic responds, but he didn't have to fly outside the boundary. There's plenty of space for him to cruise in. Is that his excuse? Flying? He's flown within the designated area before.

"I can't _accelerate_ within the boundary," he snaps into the air, "the best currents are too high and I can't get to them straightaway in vertical takeoff."

But he doesn't need to get to them. He could be content with what he has--Starscream thinks--he could stop whining about it.

"I'll stop complaining if I'm not confined to this damn room any longer. They can't keep me in a tiny section of airspace for as long as I'm here."

They can and they will, he sourly counters his own delusions, they'll never trust him. He's not good enough at assimilating here; he's too waspish for their sensitive Autobot sparks to handle on a social level, and that's all Autobots are capable of assessing anymore. If they were any smarter, maybe they'd understand how miserable it is, relishing in that one moment of full-thrust before getting zapped painfully back to reality. He is not yet an Autobot, he is not the Decepticon second-in-command, he is nothing he's worked for all these millions of stellar cycles. Starscream is useless and powerless here. It's very likely he will continue to be; all because once again, he's failed to meet expectations and _stay within the bounds._

_You're alive._

Starscream hisses. The voice barely dances around his audial sensors. "What?"

_You've survived. An achievement in itself. You could have died millennia ago._

The seeker realises this is more than his ever-contrary conscience belittling him. It's the foreign entity he allowed into his processor--time to find out if he regrets it. "How very optimistic and relevant."

 _All your progress ensues the fact you are alive,_ it proclaims. _Haven't you encountered similar obstacles before?_

"Not the same thing, little glitch," he snips, "I'm starting all over with this one."

_Compare it to your return to the Decepticons. You were alive with extensive ground to cover and something valuable to bargain with. Reevaluate._

"How do you know that? What are you?" Starscream growls. Calm bleeds into his EMF. Not a substantial amount, to where he might panic, but it is unwelcome all the same. "Stop that."

 _...of course_. It retracts without warning, leaving him spinning in the stress, anger, fear of what's happening. Starscream refuses to contradict himself and demand it back; he needs no respite. The voice continues.

_I will give you time to think. You are not starting over._

Think Starscream does. First it is to eliminate obvious possible sources of this entity--not a virus, not a chemical, not his processor misfiring (well, it's happened before)--and then weed out the innocent parties, strategically.

Chances of this coming from the Autobots are slim to none. Processors verge on entirely private and surely it's something against their code of conduct. He wouldn't put this sort of thing past Shockwave, though given the context of how the voice speaks to him, it doesn't make sense. Neither does this presence have the kind of--tangible--feel that something generated by scientific apparatus would. Starscream is no stranger to the invasiveness of processor-related procedures.

His ideas dwindle into the absurd. The seeker is quick to discount the idea of communing with a spark or spark residue, regardless of how widespread that notion used to be. (He tried, once, and it failed splendidly.) Still, it leaves an unpleasant anxiety in his struts--because the Well of Allsparks _has_ been redeposited. Sparks could be anywhere.

Starscream's wings tremble even as he scoffs. Talking to a ghost. Very probable.

Only after he makes himself uncomfortable with dwelling on it does he begin to address the voice's words. Perhaps--he huffs in annoyance--they have some merit. It is true that being alive is one of the stipulations for getting anywhere; can't do much if you're dead. It is also true that he is facing the task of winning the Autobots' certainty. The seeker scrapes the worn edge of his berth with a singular claw.

He _did_ return to his position as second, eventually.

He lists the information he has that may prove useful to the Autobots sooner or later. Starscream is not the type to play all cards simultaneously, except when necessary, but he might benefit from putting a few in the field. His patience is still strung thin despite the swell of his confidence. How long will it take?

He cannot be expected to continue getting along with them if they keep him grounded. Too long and Starscream could ruin his own chance at advantage purely out of frameset difficulty.

_If you remain amiable and additionally offer them something of consequence, you should succeed. It should not become a danger to you if you act quickly. The Autobots may allow you free range of flight in the near future._

The seeker narrows his optics and rubs at his temple. The voice is warm and smooth in a way he does not appreciate. It rather reminds him of someone soothing a youngling. "Potentially, yes." Amusement trickles through his field; he is far from amused. Starscream's plating shifts in discomfort. He purposely sends it a pulse of rejection. 

The mirth is reigned in, but leaves a stain behind. He flicks his wings up and out, a display of dominance, not that the disembodied voice can see it. It reminds him of how he won't be using them in the upcoming solar cycles. Starscream fights the ice that creeps through his energon lines--memories surfacing of all the times he's seen seekers deprived of the air. It's foolish to think it won't be that bad; maybe not at first, but for more than an orn and he will be in trouble.

_The flightlessness still vexes you._

"Evidently," Starscream hisses, "you don't fully comprehend flightframes."

_Apologies. I was unaware of the extent to which this is affecting you._

"Sure."

_I can assist if you would like._

"And how is that?" Starscream bites. The voice takes a few nanokliks to respond, as if mulling over the question.

_You are aware that I will not violate a boundary you establish, yes?_

The seeker doubts anything this voice has to say, but that is besides the point. So far it has left him alone when he desires--so, Starscream decides that he will lie to it. He will wait before actually bestowing trust or credibility upon it (that does not mean he will honestly give it his opinion).

"I am now."

 _Good_ , it replies, and seems much less cautious, _remember it always._

"The point," Starscream presses, frustrated. He does not enjoy talking to whatever is occupying his processor.

_I do not find it necessary to offer the Autobots the same courtesy._

\- - - - -

_She hums, soft and low. A calm noise amid the din of this place. Bass thrums through the walls and she can feel it in her chest--in any other circumstance, it would comfort her. Right now, she's only concerned for the welfare of her offspring, and he needs rest. So her tune is softer, like a lullaby, to ease the sound of the heavy beat. (As it should be. Her creator used to sing her the requiems.)_

_This is what she's been reduced to, an object of desire--in the fallout, they took away all proper occupations (and she misses having her dignity, being a technician). She is paid to interface. As long as she keeps up, she can keep herself standing. She reminds herself it's demeaning, but it's not slavery and she's not dead like her sister. She can keep her newspark alive, too._

_There will be more customers tomorrow. She almost dreads it, for her newspark's sake--even if she knows one of those customers did this. Her newspark is already confined to this caste and the bottom end of it. Any spark not from the Well--oh, it stirs fear in her just thinking about what the future will bring._

_Rationally, this is the product of one of the mechs or femmes who visited her, lending a spark signature in overload. But she ignores the fact. She likes to think of this newspark being all hers, only hers. The tiny frame is curled close to her chestplates, already searching out affection. Needy little thing. The protoform is a perfect choice for the spark (cost her too many credits, but she'll ease up on her utilities for the orn. She didn't want an ordinary model for an extraordinary sparkling). She doesn't have a reason for deciding to keep him beyond what she knows--he's part of her and he needs her and he'll be the only one like her. It's enough._

_The music spirals louder. She verges on laughing because her newspark doesn't cry or protest it, just moves the fingers she picked, right in rhythm. Primus does she have a designation for him. Still, there's sorrow in her spark that she can't give more to him. He deserves a proper home instead of this hovel._

_His vocalizer clicks and spits static. He's trying to hum._

_She does laugh this time; he's quick, isn't he? She hasn't heard of a newspark making any noise before the first upgrade. She holds him just a bit tighter and makes sure he can hear her over anything else. In a few days' time, she can forge a link with him. That gives her reprieve from her own pain--the stinging guilt that he has to be here while she sells herself, taking it in with innocent optics. At least they will have the same connection she had with her creator, and maybe if she can get out of here, he won't retain so much of the memory._

_For now, she runs digits along his helm, smooth protoform delicate beneath them. She sings him to sleep._

\- - - - -

It's long after Jackie returns to base for debriefing with nothing to report--no Shockwave, no Predacons, just as they thought. Stalemate is heavy on the team, four against four now with their proposals on how to handle the problem. They postpone the next assessment with the excuse that everyone needs time to think. Really, though, he's of the opinion that everyone is sick of fighting. He still doesn't know what went down with KO but it's not good if 'Cee won't tell him.

So he heads to put in a few hours before the next patrol. It turns out highly unsatisfying. Wheeljack comes out of recharge in the safety of his quarters, unsettled. His plating flares and rattles in the attempt to cool his circuitry. 

The hell is going on?

His pedes drag on the floor as he seeks out the energon dispenser (kinda fitting, that the ranking 'cons had personal ones). This is the fourth consecutive night he's had this issue; the same scene every time. His dreams just--why do they automatically revert?

He forgets the name of the place, just that it's resource storage and it's in Kaon. Wheeljack does not even remember the date. To him it is another mission, pretty insignificant at that. The Wreckers tear through the building, 'con after 'con going down, until they hit the heart of it. It plays over and over again in his processor. He can't get rid of it, and it is not just a repeated dream. It's like watching surveillance feed frame-by-frame, poring over what colour each mech is and running facial recognition, sometimes two or three times in a row.

The names of the other guys and their personalities are dredged up constantly. He remembers where they hail from, their designations, their abilities and the worst things they've done, in that exact order. Each and every one, even though he hasn't thought about any of it in years. Jackie's dream analyzes everything until he drifts to better memories, and then right when the good times give him a break, _the call_ comes in. Back into the same grey, one-out-of-hundreds resource holding on the outskirts of Kaon he goes.

He rubs his jaw. It doesn't feel right; he hasn't had night terrors in years. The dream itself is not a part of what caused those. That particular mission didn't impact his sleep cycles. So why is he so-- _antsy_ \--when it jolts him from recharge? Why is he fixating on it? He's searching for something. Something must have gotten to him that day and he didn't notice it until there was a nice lull settling in.

Wheeljack makes a decision. If it's not gone in the next few solar cycles, he'll go to Ratchet. KO reworked that dimensional map hardware earlier, right? Yeah. Maybe this could be sustained injury from a while back, reasserting itself now. If anything, that map should determine if it is his processor rerouting, which he suspects more than the "emotional-damage" theory. Happens to a lot of mechs; easy fix. He'll hold out just a bit longer, and then take Bulkhead up on seeing the Doc.

Agh, but that poses the question of which "Doc" he's gonna get. He oughta be real careful not to piss either of them off now. Man, he gives medics credit for a lot, but when they're angry at you, you're perfectly justified in running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey, next chapter for Addiction has 4K words as of today. Hopefully it'll be up by Sunday night. **Please review!** I literally just figured out the "bold" HTML. Needed a test. (Slightly less confusion? Slightly more? _How do you feel._ Bonus points if you can guess who's behind that transmission with zero information!) Special thanks to my one friend who helped me through some stuff and made this chapter possible (you know who you are). Here I am dedicating chapters. Someone stop me.  <3


	3. All We Need is Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When the silence isn't quiet and it feels like it's getting hard to breathe_  
>  _And I know you feel like dying but I promise we'll take the world to its feet_  
>  _And move mountains._ \- Rise Up by Andra Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feels train *choo choo* has arrived, prepare for boarding  
> i cry because andra day

Ratchet flexes the cabling in his servos, thankful for the upcoming final layer of encryption; code is tedious and he's never had much patience for it. Because the bypass routes align so closely with sourced examples, he suspects if not from the Elite Guard, the message came from an organisation similar. Or, at the very least, from one of their devices, like the one it's been received by. The keys are matched to what they already had on record, which is a great relief; without access to Decepticon decryption tools to start afresh, they would have been hard pressed to decipher this.

Things are slow besides the progress being made on restoring the groundbridge tech, so Ratchet works in the medical bay. Knock Out's presence behind him is unobtrusive. The other medic is strangely quiet when busy, which is almost perfect, save for the fact that he's probably quiet out of irritation, too; he wonders if Smokescreen has bothered apologising yet. Ratchet can hear the occasional tick of the dimensional projector turning on and off.

"How is it looking?" he ventures.

Knock Out sighs. "Better than before, I sup _pose_. The hardware took quite a pummelling in the crash. Fixing it should be fun. I could ask the same of you, though. Transmission coming along?"

"One layer until fully decoded," Ratchet replies. "And there is no identification tag. We'll have to rely on voice recognition--the chances of someone being in the database are hit-or-miss, unfortunately."

"We have record of all Decepticons, but the Autobot data is...limited. If you can't identify who it is, you might rule out the threats of who it isn't."

"Good point," Ratchet commends, as he sends the last snip of code through the cipher. The device grants permission to enter the transmission files; Knock Out approaches and looks on while Ratchet begins audio playback.

_:: Er entkommt! Schauen sie jetzt, was sie getan haben. ::_

_:: Mich? Es war nicht_ meine _schuld!_ Sie _sind derjenige, der die linke schussbahn gestoßen hat. ::_

_:: Ich habe nicht getan! Uregelmäßig hat getan, es ist auf ihnen wenig-- ::_

_:: You're_ both _idiots and you ought to get him back, which you can't do bickering like newsparks. ::_

_:: Rauch. ::_

_:: Rude? Yes. Stupid? No. ::_

_:: Sie haben bereits die dumme! ::_

"Human dialects?" Ratchet questions, bewildered. "Coming from a Cybertronian ship? That can't be." The Aston Martin's optic ridges draw together; he reaches around and rewinds the transmission, listening intently.

"Hmm. German, actually," Knock Out declares, laughing when Ratchet's skepticism shows, "I'll have you know that Germany is prime night-racing territory. I may have picked up a few phrases."

"You can comprehend this, then."

"Eh...I could give you a general overview of the conversation, but verbatim would require some fine-tuning."

"An overview is better than nothing," Ratchet says. He plays the recording once more, noting its abrupt end, and the red medic issues his interpretation.

"The ones using German are fighting because someone escaped from them. They're just arguing over whose fault it is."

"How many speakers are there?"

"Hard to tell. Maybe five, but admittedly the transmission is distorted. All that static interference. Safe to say that the English comes from the same source, though."

"Scrap," Ratchet hisses, "no voice recognition matches. They might not be Decepticons, but we know nothing of the person who escaped them, either. That could pose an imminent danger if their ship is so close in range."

Knock Out peers at the screen in pensive thought. "Well, then. We'll have to use phone-a-friend."

\- - - - -

 _She rushes to clean the mess after the last customer; her newspark is due for an upgrade, defrag and feeding in less than a groon, and she hopes to encourage him into processing some kind of energon before they leave. He rejects the liquid so fiercely that unless he is half-recharging, feeding is hopeless. He bats at the tube. She has yet to get him to drink, but she's had some success attaching it to an intake port on his chest._ Fussy, _she thinks, listening to the click and whirr of his vocalizer. She tries distracting him with noises and waving her fingers; the bitlet is not fooled and screws up tiny faceplates at her, smacking her servo away before she can connect the tube._

Love, please. You need this.

 _It's no more than an errant thought (perhaps somewhere, deep down, she believes he might catch on, feel her frustration somehow) but he freezes, optics wide and wondrous at her. Can he--? Surely not_ yet. _His servos reach delicately out for the energon, blindly groping, staring at her._

Are you going to drink this time?

_He hiccups, letting her closer than she's been before. She slips the flat tip beyond his dermas, turns on the filtration system at the lowest setting, watches his optics dim--_

_Whap._

_He swats, kicking pedes and flailing arms, sending the tube out of the way. Her newspark wrenches, opens his mouth and_ screams. _The sound chills her lines and she startles, fumbling to calm him, trying to soothe his shaking arms. This is the first time she's seen him cry. He's never this upset in any way--it rattles her. He only screams louder at her touch, wailing, optics welling with coolant; she doesn't understand why, but puts the feeding system to rest for now because that might have triggered this. Primus, did she do something wrong?_

Hurt, hurt, hurt. 

_She stills, surprised. Listens, waits to see if he'll do it again, as his screaming quells and the tears escalate. He can't be that far ahead in development; maybe the first time was an accident. It has to be. The medics told her what she could expect from this upgrade. Except her newspark continues:_

Hurt-hurt-hurt-hurt-hurts.

What hurts? You can tell me, this way. Go on. What is it? _she asks, crooning. All she gets in reply are unfocused optics, coolant spilling from them that she wipes from his faceplates; he grabs at her finger there and clings to it._ What hurts? _she repeats. He goes through a shaky intake cycle, then quiets and stares vacantly. His legs move, but he doesn't seem aware of it--aware of anything, for that matter. It's her turn to cry, scared that she might have injured her own creation, as he chirrs and holds her digit tight. His small frame shivers from exertion._

 _An awful blip streaks through her neural net: a screech of garbled sound, clashing colours--voices mumbling--landscapes, emotions, and loud, long streams of code, beeping--all there for a second and gone. She winces, confused at its appearance, and her newspark makes a soft, distressed noise, cradling her digit to his chestplates. His EMF fluctuates._ Hurt, _he cries._

_She looks down at him to see his terrified, lavender optics, colour muted and paled from lack of fuel. He's starving and he isn't looking at her. She sobs._

_She's frightened, too._

\- - - - -

As much as Starscream detests the notion of helping, he admits that being useful surpasses drowning in ennui anyday. He's rather interested; not often does he come across Cybertronians speaking human dialects, and they tend to fall in the same few categories. He could preen at what a valuable asset he is--certainly, the benefits of his former occupations aren't lost on the Autobots. He stands, in the medical bay, pleased that his one-time subordinate remembered something about his numerous achievements. 

Knock Out relates the bulk of the message, and bursts that bubble rather quickly. "I figured you've had the luxury of rosters to know everyone by. Perhaps we missed a few people. Either way, you stand a better chance of recognizing the voices than Ratchet and I."

Starscream narrows his optics, annoyed. And here he thought they'd gained some ground.

 _Offer assistance in exchange for free flight._

Unwelcome though it is, the invading voice has a point. It had nearly slipped his mind to search for opportunity. Starscream clears his throat, getting the Autobot medic's attention--no, he forgot Knock Out is a defector, Autobot _medics'_. "I'm willing to analyze this on one condition."

Ratchet glares. "I'm afraid you don't have bargaining chips to--"

"Free airspace," Starscream cuts him off, "that is all, and I will give information to the best of my ability. No more flight restrictions. You may reapply the tracking device if you must, but I get to fly on my own terms."

The decision is silently made, faster than Starscream expected it to be, and with less procession or deliberation. They neglect to consult the other Autobots. Ratchet simply looks at Knock Out, looks back to the seeker, and nods. "Fine."

_You added a failsafe for their use. Persuasive._

_You underestimate how often this happens,_ Starscream retorts mentally, keeping his faceplates bare of the frustration he feels. Intrigue sparks through his inner field and he cannot help but cringe. Thankfully, the voice doubles back on its mistake and offers a minute feeling of apology. Not that Starscream intends to accept it.

 _I am well aware of the frequency, Starscream. I yield that strategy was underestimated._ It sounds museful. The seeker ignores the glitch, trains his attention on the medics, resolving to deal with this presence later, and tunes his audial receptors to the clip Ratchet plays instead. Starscream frowns.

"Any non-Cybertronian language implies spending time on other planets, usually not for conquest--likely diplomacy. Earth would be an odd choice, though. One more time, slower."

He can hear it in the slope of the 'o,' through the blurred vowel-consonant combination at the end of 'newsparks,' at the sharp distinctions in ' _jetzt_ ' and 'stupid.' The seeker is left reeling. "They all have Vosnian accents," he says, quieter than he intends.

The presence exploits his processor to convey its concern (instead of violating his field), and maybe it should resonate greater than it does, but he would rather this less-personal approach. _You are Vosnian,_ it states, gently, _is the impact of this positive, or unsettling?_ The inquiry is soft, unassuming. He hates it.

Starscream doesn't have the answer to its question--or if he did, the capacity to respond. The medics wait expectantly for him to continue, and he's altogether too good at restraining his field for them to notice the tension. "Play it again. Did you hear the sounds between the first people talking? Those are transformation sequences."

The seeker establishes three different speakers, perhaps four, but cannot be certain. All are familiar, but he can't recall names to align with the vocalisers; after they can glean nothing else from the transmission, he walks to the rec room on shaky bipedal struts, struggling with the gravity of that discovery. Vosnians, his processor repeats, a steady mantra. Vosnians who are not recorded in the Decepticon databases.

_After you refuel, you might consider talking through this reaction._

_Shut up,_ he demands.

 _Are the signalling mecha other seekers?--careful,_ warns that glitch. Starscream pauses abruptly, noting the wall in his peripheral feed and adjusting his course so as not to charge into it. He doesn't address the voice, and his resolution darkens to rid himself of this parasite, even as he dispenses a cube of energon and drinks. It pries where it should not.

\- - - - -

Megatron stares out at Kaon wondering how oppression infiltrated his own agenda, how he could possibly have strayed so far from the ideals. This place here, the top ledge of the ring, sunk beneath the barren city--brings recollections to the surface that he isn't sure he wants. He'd clawed his way out of this arena more than once. The emptiness feels full of faces that met their end in the Pits, struggling to survive, and others that wore down until nothing recognizable was left about them. He remembers sitting here to escape the tumult, back when he thought prose could fight systematic injustice. For as many kliks as he sits now, he questions if they're any better off than before, and the sum of these millions of years is disappointing at best.

"Include this in the publication?" he had once asked. One of the memories the ledge hosts.

He received a nod--not any nod; a complex one that meant more than simple "yes."

The piece he talked about was more gruesome than critical, but he thought it fair to include it in his draft. People would read it, and that was a start--having them question what they knew. Where better to start than the burial of a fallen gladiator? No one outside the arena knew about the dismantling and re-purposing of the dead, the way dealers would scamper towards corpses and strip them of the most valuable parts. Come the next influx, those parts would be on shelves for fresh--often very young--gladiators to choose from.

He also thought it characteristic of his friend to like this darker script. Soundwave had _maybe_ two words for any positive pieces, and one of them was "no."

"It isn't right," he sighed, "for people to be recycled. And it's one too many times they have done it--like it's not enough to die _here_ , they have to sell the pieces of your frame to the newcomers."

"Makes no difference to a dead person," Soundwave deadpanned.

"Well, it means something to the living, doesn't it. Everyone is forced to be worthless, whether we are or not--you know some are, Curbstomp is--but we're already dying before our time. Why are they allowed to dismember the fighters who don't make it each round? It's enough that their sparks went out inside arena gates." Soundwave didn't respond, so he pushed further: "Do you think about what would happen if that were you?"

"No."

But he waited for Soundwave to continue--that's how it always was, silence filling the space while the mech thought of the shortest, most acute way to put his thoughts in order. It was how his friend worked. (That's what they were, friends, and he was grateful for having one, even if neither of them were much for socializing.)

"Whatever happens to me will be unscheduled. Inevitable. I can at best control the events leading up to it. Beyond that is useless."

"The misery we're in now," Megatron (then Megatronus) replied, "where we've been, is not how you want to live until your inevitable death--or how you want others to live. It's not."

The mech smiled, a grim thing that shook him to the core in its every appearance, before Soundwave took to visors and masks. He'd been in rough situations prior to the arena, but he couldn't lift a digit to that eerie grin. Whereas he'd had hope, a purpose, Soundwave couldn't cling to a shred of faith in the world. Soundwave was younger than him; Megatron still doesn't know how much younger, but the gap must be wider than shorter.

"No. It isn't. But it won't change."

"We could make it change," he argued. "We're on our way to making it change."

Soundwave's optics were distant and preoccupied. Sometimes Megatronus wished he could tell what his friend was thinking of--maybe he would have understood, maybe he wouldn't. Either way, he'd have had a start.

"You are," Soundwave said, removing himself from the equation, "and if you stay determined, you could."

"Then what are you?" Megatronus wasn't sure, but he thought Soundwave muttered 'I'm already dead.' "You're not giving up. Think about it. If we can draw anyone's attention at all, that is a step in the right direction, the whole point of this."

"Leaping before looking," the mech murmured. "People won't change."

"Give them a chance to."

Soundwave stood, as if weary. He unravelled from the unnatural balled-up stance he had taken on. Much like Megatronus, he spent his free time on the upper level looking out to Kaon, where bustling life moved without them. Life beyond the arena consisted of mining, toil, and trial besides: that was what the castes had thereby been condemned to. Megatronus heard the click and pop of struts and cables shifting back into place as Soundwave corrected his posture, still staring off into oblivion. The stare was never vacant--just full of something Megatronus couldn't identify.

"I did," Soundwave had said.

Whoever Soundwave gave that chance to had failed him. If not for the rest of the world, Megatronus resolved in that moment to pull through for Soundwave's sake. He thought, at that time, that people could and would change, including the shut-down and walled-off friend of his; and in the present, watching the winds stir dust against the spires of broken buildings, Megatron realizes what was in that stare.

Resignation. Resignation to suffering, regardless of which form suffering took: whether twisting a limb in the Pits, being humiliated before the Council, or losing a symbiont during the war. Soundwave knew before Megatron stepped outside the hell that was Kaon, and he didn't have the decency to believe him. Even now, he doesn't know what's become of his third-in-command--but does it matter?

Megatron scratches the scorch marks off of the metal where he perches. His attempts to restore hope have ended in failure, goals warped to obscure lengths. He may have pulled through, but he came out in fragments, and he lost a friend along the way.

\- - - - -

"Wheeljack," Arcee prompts, "Wheeljack."

His optical feed is bleary and contorted, his limbs are colder than usual, error messages line his HUD, and Arcee is crouched over him. Wheeljack rights his frame, struck with a wave of dizziness after sitting. As he props himself against the wall, confused beyond measure, the femme shoots him a concerned glance. "Are you okay?"

"Wh--" he starts. He remembers walking the corridor, heading out for the next patrol, maybe feeling at a loss for rest. A recollective flash responds to his prying as he tries thinking of what happened. "Damn it," he growls to himself, "that _warehouse_ again."

"What warehouse?"

Wheeljack shutters optics, debating. He's already made the decision to persevere for another solar cycle or two, then concede to checking out the medical bay for an answer--but if he's started relapsing into recharge while he's moving, maybe filling Arcee in isn't such a terrible idea. "Just something with my processor lately," he grimaces. "A whole lot of recurring files."

He begins his brief narrative with the warehouse fixation, leaving out the memory lapses. Arcee listens carefully and offers her suggestion. "Ratchet said he'd be finished with transmission decryption by the end of this solar cycle. You should see him as soon as possible after that."

Wheeljack nods his assent. Arcee's optics widen. "Wheeljack."

"Yeah?"

"You have a cranial port open."

Well, shit. If he wasn't shaken up before, he is now.

Neural ports have manual catches, but each frameset is different and typically, medics are the only reliable sources for knowing how to trigger manual catches. The other avenue of access is for a 'bot to voluntarily open one--and Wheeljack does not recall sending that command.

"I don't like this," Arcee declares, solemnly, borderline aggressively. "Listen. Head down to Ratchet. Forget patrols, I'll cover for you. Don't leave anything out when you talk to him."

"You suspect something," he says.

Arcee looks over her shoulder at the empty hall. "I do, but you need to see Ratchet."

"So tell me what you think, and I'll get on my way."

She sighs. "It could be a malfunction, in which case you're anywhere from a circuit upgrade to an operation. There is the fact that we've only just defeated Unicron--could be some negative effect of Dark Energon exposure."

"Or?"

"Or it could be what I went through in Kalis, and if it is, you _need_ to see Ratchet. Trust me."

\- - - - -

Starscream traces the edge of the ancient tab, peeling away a thin spiral of metal. He'd never wanted to see this again, but push has come to shove, and he has found a use for its nonsensical ceremonies. Hopefully, this session will be more productive than the last. Starscream is on no account superstitious, simply at a loss for another plan, and regards _Sparksights_ with healthy skepticism. It failed him the first time. If it fails him twice, shame on him.

His intakes are deep as he scrolls through the text, searching for the section on purges. The seeker takes notes on his personal tab after browsing past _Spark Communing, Corona Readings_ , and finally stops at _Contaminant Purging._

 _It won't work,_ the voice says in a worn sigh. _You gave me access; I will not be recognized as a contaminant. I have no effect on your spark._

"I believe you," Starscream gives an ironic peal of bitter laughter. (The joys of sarcasm).

Two groons, a glyph drawn in sealant and a thoroughly emptied fuel tank later, the seeker is curled on his berth, directing resentment at the destroyed fragments of datapad on the floor. He should have stomped on it eons ago. Starscream desperately wants to be alone because Primus knows what damage this virus is doing--or worse, what it can decipher about his mood. He wants to fly, where the physical risk makes feelings obsolete. He wants high-grade to soothe the ache of hearing Vosnians. A battle. A project. An injury. Anything, at this point, is welcome in comparison to his current state, where a stranger intrudes on his privacy.

 _Stranger is a strong term,_ it hums. Starscream scowls; if it wants to lighten the atmosphere, it could start by killing itself. He mulls over the context of that statement, though, distracted.

"I do know you," he says, seeking confirmation.

 _We are acquainted,_ it concedes, with an undertone of annoyance. Maybe it didn't intend to relinquish that information, which only provides another clue.

"If you are Cybertronian, you must have a means of getting inside my helm. Perhaps a revised cortical device," he muses. The seeker earns silence instead of a straight answer (not that he expected one), and decides to abandon the track of interrogation in favour of the task at hand: introspective brooding. Starscream doesn't realize the weight of his field until comfort tentatively presses in on the edges.

 _Talking seems to help you sort through other incidents,_ the voice surmises, _might it help you with this one?_

Starscream snorts. "You want me to confide in you, is that it? Well. You'd best get used to disappointment."

_On the contrary. Keeping me in confidence is unnecessary. I only suggest that assessing your state of mind aloud is a better alternative to internalisation._

"So much attention coming from someone who I can't recall in person," the seeker purrs, darkly amused. "As far as I recollect, no one is this invested in how I choose to spend my time."

_Prior to this link, I had not assumed your complexity. My viewpoint has since been illuminated._

Perhaps he ought to be offended that someone thought he was simple, but the presence sounds rather contrite, as if trying to move him to forgiveness, and he does have a soft spot for grovelling. 'Illuminated' is pretentious; he catalogues this observation. "You said 'link'? I knew it; a cortical device," Starscream drawls, filing the rest of the response to ponder over at another time, "I sincerely hope you aren't Shockwave."

It laughs, warming the space around him, _no, I can assure you I am not. Do take my suggestion into consideration, Starscream. Preparing yourself is not unwise, if contact is established with the Vosnians in that transmission, and harbouring so much conflict could be detrimental._

"Maybe," the seeker says, "your suggestion has merit, but you're hardly trustworthy."

 _Then I will prove it,_ the voice murmurs, _however you see fit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what predacons rising? screw your irresolution i want answers  
> translation of that encrypted comm:  
> \--"He's getting away! Now look what you've done."  
> \--"Me? It wasn't my fault. You're the one who pushed the left trajectory."  
> \--"I did not! Erratic did, that's on you, little--"  
> \--"You're both idiots and you ought to get him back, which you can't do bickering like newsparks."  
> \--"Rude."  
> \--"Rude? Yes. Stupid? No."  
> \--"You already did the stupid!"  
> if y'all want to guess identities be my guest you have (technically) five mysteries on your hands  
> love u all and bye for now, but i promise to answer all reviews!! coffee and reviews are my sustenance


	4. Retrograde (Show Me Where You Fit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'll wait_  
>  _So show me why you're strong_  
>  _Ignore everybody else_  
>  _We're alone now._ \- Retrograde by James Blake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! here's ~steamy~ (and spooky) action  
>  hope it makes up for chapter three, dont give up on me yet i promise things will make sense eventually

Smokescreen is not fond of console duty; he prefers manual labor to manual entry anyday. Routine functions, unsurprisingly, grow less and less interesting with time, and he's tasked with scrolling through backlog upon backlog of data because nobody can get the server to cooperate. _Beep._ Smokescreen huffs and keeps organizing, wondering why they can't have Starscream do this--who knows? Maybe he'd stop complaining about "flight restrictions" if he wasn't stuck stalking around and reading all solar cycle.

 _Beep._ He trails the screen for the source of that sound, finding errors galore in file placement, but nothing triggering an alarm. _Beep._ He grimaces and narrows optics at the computer; it was told, in highly specific code, to put damage-related feedback under 'Critical.' And currently, it's decided to scramble what he's accomplished instead. _Beep._ Not. Cool. Now he'll be spending more time here.

 _Beep._ Smokescreen groans. "What do you _want_?" he gestures into the empty space with his servo, fixating on another of the command center's many consoles in the process. Realisation dawns--especially at seeing the flashing lights of warning the other computer generates.

"Oh. Wrong computer," Smokescreen casually notes, and proceeds to follow up on the real problem, since the frustration of a mystery error is resolved. He resets optics; in a state of sudden panic, he comms Bumblebee with the urge to get to the bridge, immediately. The Nemesis' scanners not only display a foreign signature in the surrounding airspace, but one that is flying toward Cybertron's surface with unprecedented speed. If the object is a threat, they're in imminent trouble--and if not, someone else might be.

"Bee? Scanners are picking up something entering Cybertron's atmosphere!" Smokescreen alerts.

"Can they read what it is?" Bumblebee asks, darting over to the console.

"Same signature as the deep-space ship, but smaller, coming in fast. Way too fast. Whatever it is, it's gonna crash."

"Where is it headed?"

"I can't get a solid reading--Sea of Rust," Smokescreen says after a moment, "just barely outside our position--" 

A distant _boom_ shakes the Nemesis, startling its occupants. Smokescreen works to track the tiny signature, digits flying on the keypad. Bumblebee opens his comm to Bulkhead, who is out on patrol with Arcee.

"Any chance you know what that was?" Bulkhead queries, before Bee can speak. "We just saw something come down trailing smoke. Sounds like it didn't have a nice landing."

"Impact registered," Smokescreen concurs not a nanoklik after.

"'Bot or 'con?" Bumblebee inquires.

"Neither," Smokescreen draws optic ridges close together, "it's coming up neutral." His tanks roil; if the Vosnians who transmitted the encrypted message are neutrals, and the object that just created a veritable crater bears their signature...that can't be good.

"Bulkhead, that was some kind of subvessel from the ship that sent us the transmission. The energy stamp is neutral. You said it was smoking?"

"Yep. Like a blown engine."

"I can confirm it was an escape pod; I'm forty-five degrees south of Bulkhead," Arcee joins the comm channel, "same structure as emergency vehicles for standard carrier ships. It went down hard, just west of the Nemesis."

"Arcee, Bulkhead, I'm sending you to survey the area with Ultra Magnus as backup. Search for the crash site. If you find anyone hostile, don't engage. Ratchet and Knock Out will be on standby for injuries, worst-case scenario. Let's hope no one was aboard--or _was_ that thing."

Smokescreen, staring at the blinking marker of an energy signature, clenches denta in worry.

\- - - - -

Three solar cycles Starscream has waited. The Autobots have yet to fulfill his condition of free flight, but neither do they seem to be withdrawing from the deal because they've reinstalled the monitoring tag.

His equilibrium is off. Normally imbalance is nearly meaningless in the grand scheme of things, worthless next to greater concerns he'd have as the primary strategist for all Decepticon attacks. At worst, his systems would recalibrate and result in irregular flight. So he waits for this--except recalibration doesn't happen; the scenario only deteriorates until alerts on his HUD warn him of the strain on his frame.

Starscream suspects it is the stress of not being able to retain energy, as he is reluctant to consume the amount he needs in front of grounders (and yes, he's unpleasantly experienced grounders staring agape at a normal, six-cube serving). A niggling portion of his conscious argues that no further transmissions from the Vosnians, in three solar cycles, ratchets his anxiety higher. He has a habit of putting that portion aside. No, Starscream hasn't taken the glitch's suggestion, and dammit, he doesn't intend to. Whatever the source of the matter is, the seeker finds himself terribly unfocused, tired and strung thin, stuck in this predicament. Should he leave it alone much longer, the Autobots will notice. Possibly dig their blocky servos into his business and make it more severe.

There are convenient ways to restore equilibrium. He hasn't been much for indulging in self-service lately because of the newly replaced security device, maybe for lack of mood as well. (While showing off is appealing in theory, the _other faction_ is not an audience he endeavours to perform for.) Now, though, Starscream will have to make an exception.

Luckily for him, they are busy and he is less than a priority, giving him tremendous privacy advantage. He scoffs, having no doubt that at a few would spill oral solvent at watching a seeker do anything remotely interface-related.

His frame is well-tuned for this activity, a skill he perfected long ago, and protocols begin running as he pries at his favourite starting node cluster, the one just beneath the curve of his hip. Frame memory alone makes him shudder in anticipation. Starscream's field swells with the leisurely strokes of his digits.

It's his own damn fault he cannot get past dim excitement. The stimulus is lovely; overloading from tactile input is seldom anything less. But he is uncomfortable with the idea of others intruding on a pleasure he needs, and this translates to his frame in subconscious reluctance to open anything. Starscream's stubborn spark casing stays firmly shut; no getting off from that. Frustration burns a bright streak in his processor. His external nodes send encouraging feedback, but the seeker's frame refuses him, even at the pretense of using his ports. He makes a low noise of desperation as his petting turns rough, trying to gain some ground. This is a grand mistake; he pinches a wingtip so hard it hurts, which chases most of his lust and patience away. He stops abruptly.

If he doesn't overload sooner than later--

_Calm down._

The voice is so unexpected that he jolts halfway off his berth; laughter echoes in his head. _Easy, easy._

"Get fragged," he hisses, humiliated, and the presence should not have been watching or listening in the first place. Does it have no sense of respect? Starscream shoos his emotions away with the knowledge this voice can also interpret his EMF. He will not allow it any taste of victory at the cost of his embarrassment, smug little glitch it is.

_I could assist._

"Really," Starscream sniffs, returning to his node cluster to begin again. The offer for help is repulsive--

 _Yes, if you like,_ the voice continues. _It may be an easier route to equilibrium._

The seeker refrains from asking where that information came from. So it knows its way around his processor, which is as disturbing as it is expedient. He does not have to explain anything to it. Conceding to the... _allusion_ bothers him, but he tosses the thought around. Starscream doesn't see how it could do anything--he'd really rather not let it tamper any further with his systems--but should he not allow it to try? His core temperature wavers, caught somewhere between its average degree and a level above.

 _You might find it more pleasant if you relax._

This does nothing but make the seeker tense further, as that chilling coy feeling crawls through his EMF. His frame strains to keep itself still, and he snarls. "I'm not inclined to let you do whatever the hell you want." 

_You would only receive a service,_ it corrects, calm as ever, which drives his irritation higher. 

"What are you getting out of it?" he snaps. "Certainly this isn't an act of charity." 

The resounding hum vibrates against his neck cabling as if it has physical source. Starscream cycles quickly through his intakes, unwilling to admit to fear. _Sharing your sensations, albeit manifested differently. Restoring equilibrium could ease your processor some. It is overactive as of late._

"So peace and quiet and a free overload," the seeker deadpans. The voice gives a corresponding sound of amusement. 

_Not quite. But satisfaction, yes. Do you want to overload?_

Starscream scowls. 'Satisfaction' is too ambiguous and leaves an unsettled churn in his fuel tanks. " _No_ , I'm trying to make myself _implode,_ " he says; the sarcasm is not lost.

 _Shh, shh._ Placating, haughty. It makes him angry. _And how many overloads do you deem sufficient?_

Hmm. An interesting question, almost interesting enough to counter his anger. Almost, if it were innocently posed. "Three," he replies, harsh and demanding, "I want three."

_Which is first, Starscream?_

His wings prick with pleasure, crawling out from the wingtip he dug into, and his spark throbs with a sudden wave of charge. A previously disinterested interface panel buzzes with energy, excited at the prospect of the ports beneath being attended to. The seeker squirms. Somehow the disembodied voice elicits the arousal in his frame through his processor, and the cooperation from his frame overwhelms his concern. Starscream doesn't have the spark to complain.

Still. It is _not_ allowed to tease him, with that lilted, deep hum of gratification. "Wings are off-limits. No sparks."

Wings would simply be too easy--allowing this presence access to a vast expanse of fine-tuned sensors? No, he isn't quite that simple; sparks, though exponentially more of a challenge, are too intimate, and he distrusts this entity of his.

_Will ports and contact suffice?_

"You tell me," he quips, hardly thinking about it and muttering a curse after the fact. He needs to stop thinking aloud. Playfulness spreads through his EMF.

_Agreed. Challenge accepted._

And then, as an afterthought: _enjoy yourself._

"How dare--no, no--" he starts. The seeker did not quite, not entirely mean to agree to being--assisted, for lack of a better phrase. The words die before they truly leave his vocaliser; Starscream freezes in shock and has to reset his optic feed to ensure what he doesn't see. Nothing is there, just the atmosphere of his quarters, but what he feels is a coaxing touch sweeping the edges of his interface paneling. "Stop--? How--nevermind. I don't care. No!"

_I recommend you offline your optics. You will be less uncomfortable._

"Nn--I--" the seeker shouldn't think twice at listening to the increasingly invasive presence. He should stop, pressure it into leaving him alone, do anything except offline his optics. Starscream's inquisitiveness triumphs over his panic, perhaps lulled into cooperation by that intangible stroking. Just as he takes the suggestion, heat bleeds into his field--heavy, powerful. The experience changes faster than he could have predicted.

He wishes it hadn't.

Pleasure lances through his struts as his panels retract. Receptor ports come to life, waiting for something to attach to and draw feedback from. Starscream's gasp echoes into his quarters as his sensornet burns, friction building against nothing; even if he knows better, the sensitive nodes surrounding his ports don't. Jolts of charge zing through the network.

"Stop--don't!--oh," he protests. Phantom fingers rub and press the inner surface of each port, teasing. The seeker bucks against his berth, servos digging into the flexible metal. Why couldn't things have gone his way; why couldn't he get here alone? Alone--he's not alone, the Primus damned monitor--

_This is your luxury. They are unable to share it. They cannot take this away from you._

His processor smarts indignantly at his own behaviour, but his spark fights back with fierce arousal. Starscream rolls hip struts into the treatment. And what is wrong with being _treated_ to anything, when these past orns have been so demanding?

A sudden zap of connecting charge, from one port, has a disastrous effect on his situation. And the next, and the next, until Starscream feels the distinct, tell-tale impression of a four-cord input--with nothing but empty space before him. The pulse after pulse coursing through his neural net, from this unexpected stimuli, has him gasping a breathless cadence.

_Are you always so sensitive?_

"Less mocking, more overloading," Starscream snaps, put off by how easily the voice shatters the illusion. _It_ is causing this (he is not yet prepared to address it as anything more).

_Mockery and curiosity are very different, Starscream._

The annoyance is whisked away in a cloud of hazy bliss as a testing flicker of charge is sent. Too late does he realize it distracts him from those words, which he should be analyzing.

The feeling is divine, so unlike normal encounters, as if these invisible cords transmit straight to the sweetest of spots and bypass all the tedious extras. Starscream's intakes cut out--the how is irrelevant, so long as this force keeps conjuring such delicious sensations. He vaguely thinks that if the glitch hiding in his processor is going to pleasure him like this, it could stick around forever. (Key word 'vaguely.' He's not altogether crazy about its attitude.)

But now, oh, he wants it to stay. The intensity of charge heightens, almost avaricious. Ghost-touches find sensors along his chassis to play with, anywhere from the obvious to the rare, delightfully reactive ones. Starscream reaches for his blooming overload, creeping up surely on him, as his spark spins wild in its casing, excited. It's been too long. Four orns is too long. His vents puff steam into the air, frame appreciating whatever this hallucination is, as that awaited release hovers.

_Not yet._

"You wouldn't," Starscream chokes.

_Shh. Savour it._

"I am," he argues, "give--let me--ah!"

A sharp spiral of desire strikes at his field and cuts through the thick lust, again and again to demand a reaction. Starscream gives one, EMF expanding to mesh and meld. His blacked-out optical feed registers pinpoints of light that grow until he thinks he's seeing novas. Something feathers over his ailerons, a delicate contrast to the burning ache in his lines, then retreats suddenly. He takes it back, wings are fine, wings are great, just--and it returns at his acquiescence, brushing and tantalizing until holy _slag it vibrates--_

_Exquisite._

Starscream's hips cant to meet the touches of a pretend lover. His spark--and the presence that swallows his field whole--drown him in heat. The last thing Starscream can process is the agonizingly tender, immaterial servo interlocking with his. Overload tears through his circuits in a blinding whirl, fast and intense, and the seeker's frame trembles, unprepared for its force. He can hardly make a sound.

Starscream's legs relax in the lingering satisfaction afterwards. He can scarcely move, cannot find the energy to close his panels over disengaged receptor ports, nor can he say he minds leaving them open; soft solace fills up his field. Coziness envelops him like an embrace.

While the seeker will at some point debate over its confusing aspects, the quasi-disturbing interface session has exhausted his already low energy reserves. Warnings surface on his HUD and he acknowledges their requests, initiating recharge. The meandering caresses to his wings ease him into much-needed, undisturbed rest. Starscream doesn't have opportunity to notice his restored equilibrium--nor is he aware of the sudden activation of his monitoring device.

Its feed from the last groon is replaced with a mundane loop of vital readings and movements, repeated from one of the solar cycles when the device was first active, to deceive the people surrounding the seeker. The truth (in its glaring entirety) is cautiously removed to a very private, very personal database. For future "reviewing."

\- - - - -

Knock Out configures the neural map display, devoting attention to the details, and Wheeljack contemplates just how much the rest of them might've underestimated the Aston Martin. They've only seen him in two modes: bent on dismantling their frames or complaining over cosmetic work. But from the Wrecker's position (waiting for the assessment of his scan), he thinks capability is showing. The frowning isn't a good indication of "you're okay," but at least it signifies that Knock Out knows what he's doing. Sharp digits flick over the projection, drawing out several more complex pieces to study closer.

"Alright, you might find this concerning, so I'll walk through the options with you," he starts. Wheeljack nods, and Knock Out continues, "Your processor activity is normal and stable, with high functionality--recharging should not be a problem. However, there are a few severely worn neural pathways, _here_ and _here_ ," he taps at the hologram.

"Worn down," Wheeljack repeats, with questioning emphasis.

"It means they've gone through consistent overuse, likely why your short-term memory is suffering; certain circuits might trip and the information can't re-route. Because it's not a wound, your nanites are ignoring it. Easy fix, at least. Some energon additives can help prod your self-repair nanites into recognizing the damage."

So far he's got a diagnosis and a treatment plan, but not a cause. Knock Out shifts, as if he sees what's coming, has a good idea of the problem and is the slightest bit uncomfortable with it. Wheeljack's optic ridges furrow. He does not quite dread bad news because he expected it; yet, the comments Arcee made surface, and bring apprehension with them.

"The pathways. What broke them down like that?"

The other mech crosses his arms, creating a kind of barrier. "Hard to say. Because they're in the memory category, it could be a symptom of chronic, event-specific stress. Perhaps overworking? This sort of thing happens often during long periods without recharging. But--in my professional opinion, especially with the recharging interruptions and the incident in the corridor...this looks and sounds like tampering."

"What's tampering supposed to mean?"

Knock Out sighs. "Occasionally, I've seen mecha gain access to another person's processor by attaching a tag to a few nanites. They typically do it for information, and situations like this result from their meddling."

Wheeljack thinks on this, not having much time to process it before Ratchet enters.

"Is there a problem?" the older medic asks. Knock Out glances between Wheeljack and Ratchet, before he swiftly downloads the scan information into a dataslug.

"Could I speak with you for a moment? We'll be right back," he addresses Ratchet, and assures (or tries to assure) the Wrecker.

"What is it?" Ratchet asks, quietly, in the secondary section of the med bay. Knock Out reenters the slug into a nearby console and pulls up the readings.

" _This_ ," he hisses. "This is dangerous. Take one look at that and tell me it's not someone purposefully manipulating their way to that memory sector. If Wheeljack is compromised, that could extend to everyone on board, including us, and we both know Shockwave has a preoccupation with _processor management._ "

Ratchet takes more than one look, peering intently. He grows somber. "Knock Out, I have to ask you to prepare Wheeljack for defragmentation and a firewall upgrade."

"Why? That won't do anything but contain the damage. Shouldn't we run diagnostics on his nanites? If we can locate any tags and flush them out--"

"I don't believe this is Shockwave, or that Wheeljack's frame is being used against him," Ratchet counters, enhancing the image of the neural map. "Look. This is too specific. Were it Shockwave, we'd find multiple areas of interest, probably in places where memory of access codes were stored. If nanites were being used, they would hardly do this much damage. How long did Wheeljack say this has been going on?"

"Maybe an orn, maybe less?" Knock Out seems even more agitated.

"Nanites would build up over a longer period--no. This is much worse. I've seen it before," Ratchet says.

"...might I ask where?" Knock Out ventures.

"A long time ago, Arcee returned from a surveillance operation in Kalis. She had unsuccessful recharge cycles, spotted memory banks, low frame temperature. I tried everything: recalibration, filtering for tags, a system purge, even replacing the damaged circuit entirely, just to have the new one deteriorate. By chance, I realised that her tertiary firewall was weak and decided to reinforce it. Then she was able to recover."

"What about a source? Infiltrating a core processor is impossible without a direct connection or some kind of proxy."

"This thing does not operate by direct means, it just systematically destroys," Ratchet scowls at the data, "and certainly doesn't leave a trail to follow. Whatever it is, the only way to stop it is to make sure it cannot get in again, or attain the target it's after. Because if it finds a single link to break, it will not hesitate to take the opportunity."

\- - - - -

_She knew better than to be caught walking here and tucks her youngling in the alley. She'd hoped it would never come to this._

_"Be very quiet. No matter what you hear, love, do not move. I will send you a message when it is safe," she says. Sweet thing that he is. He obeys her without protest, withdrawing into a little ball of limbs._

_The authorities are no use anymore--they practically sell propaganda, screaming to the world how dangerous her kind are. She gets foul looks and hurtful thoughts hurled at her now, and Primus, she understands. She wishes she could tell them how much she understands, how much she forgives them for being afraid. Solus bestows such a strange power on her descendants; it must terrify people who do not share it. Fright is stronger than she is. She can press all the strength she has forward, as a shield against the gang that approaches, and be helplessly overpowered. She knows, hate is just fear and she knows. The mecha come at her._

_She fights with everything she has in her awkwardly proportioned frame. Armoured upgrades cannot protect her from these kinds of people, regardless of how many credits she saved and spent to purchase the good ones. There are so many of them, six against one. Her gift cannot save her because she still doesn't know how to use telepathy to fight--she might make things worse off for everyone if she tried. Were it only her own life at stake, she would give her spark to Primus, where Solus rests too, where it's better off anyway. She senses her youngling clinging to the side of the building behind her and recalls he needs his fifth upgrade._

_She whispers to him through their barely-forged link to keep him calm, knowing it's not going to end well, likely that she will not survive. What does she want her last message to be? Be brave? She's never been so glad for preparation; all her credits will transfer to him when her spark gutters, and she has message upon message to answer some questions he might have, or give knowledge he might need, or tell him where he can go for help. She only wishes she had more time to teach with; he is not ready._

_He grasps at her reassurance, reinforcing the bond between them with unforeseen capability. Her crumpling chestplates crack open under the next blows from the shock-prods. Knuckles glance off her spark chamber, scraping--no, he's already brave. She wants him to remember that someone loved him because, Primus knows, the rest of this world will not._

_The last thing she hears before she meets the Allspark is "filthy, two-credit, manipulative glitch," but it's alright. The last thing she feels is the emotion her gifted youngling speeds back to her--and she dies knowing someone loved her, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops moms dead, sorrynotsorry  
> smokescreen is me with computers  
> starscreams down for Real Hot dubiously consensual _metaphysical sex_ damn what even is this story, i don't even  
>  i am try,, but do y'all get why the slash tag is there? or is "creepy arrogant mind-hacking entity who f*cks the sh*t out of Scream via thought" still too vague because i can try harder with this identity thing i sweAR  
> did you like this chapter? concerns, confusions, revelations?? please review, i promise to answer you  
> love you all ^.^ time to work on Addiction for once (i will finish it. i will.)


	5. Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I got guns in my head and they won't go, spirits in my head and they won't go._ \- Spirits by Strumbellas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay ive recentnly lost my will to live,, im die ng slow and painful ..  
> but this amazing person made art? that is based off of Addiction? and i cry a lot?? and i'll actually mention them the next time i update Addiction too? it is **very NSFW** so mind your viewing, but i really want to thank TheAirCommand for this, their art is so good and full colour too, just ohhh my goodness also ~~how did they know my kink was sounding~~ : http://shhh--quiet.tumblr.com/post/159884412663/pull-me-off-to-darkened-corners-where-all  
> @TheAirCommand, ILY  
> p.s. most of flashbacks in this story are and will be "tfwiki surrounded by Imaaaagination" sorry for any confusion

Wheeljack is good with technology so long as it's not _living_ technology; ships and blasters are no problem, but he'll take medical suggestions without complaint. When Knock Out says upgrades under stasis are smoother, he concedes. The Wrecker would rather not be down for too long, and especially with the events that have been compounding as of late, they might need extra numbers in the field. Stasis also doesn't seem as daunting because neither procedure involves loss of energon--"just maintenance work," as Ratchet put it.

Medically induced stasis goes without a hitch. The best description for it is eerily calm, vaguely aware of the diagnostics running over his systems. Once he thinks the going is easy, things worsen with the immediate recollection of Kaon. He fights the memory--or whomever is summoning it from his subconscious--this time, mentally clawing at the bleak grey of the warehouse. As if someone were to weaponise the word "useless" and hit Wheeljack's spark, his ability to protest sputters and dies. Wheeljack, helpless, dreads re-living this sequence of events over and over again. Who knows if the medics are aware of what's currently going on in his processor, or if they can stop it? His questions about this attack remain unanswered, mainly the "how" and "why?"

But this time is different. More specific, and definitely more desperate, he pores over the same three seconds. This time he isn't forced to go through each Wrecker's file, or walk through the mission repeatedly, frame by frame. He's unsure of what he's looking for until he sees it--they see it?--a muted sheen of blue paint amid the blaster fire and spilled energon. Whether it belongs to an arm or a leg, it's small and oddly framed. The visible joint jolts suddenly.

 _:: Nice, sharpshooter, ::_ Seaspray shouts over the comm. _:: One down, couple hundred to go! ::_

His train of thought speeds by in nanokliks, leaving him dizzy in its wake: _sharpshooter----Wrecker registry----snipers----assigned to Kaon outpost----subdivision resources----long-range positions held----Moonracer_.

 _Moonracer_ is the endgame, and Wheeljack is bothered that he can't find any significance. The retraction is swift, almost breezy as he regains control over his own memory. Wheeljack finds himself staring down two frantic medics, somehow having been pulled out of induced stasis after some unusual processor activity, or at least that's what he makes out between both their voices. He realizes the gravity of this last repetition. "They found what they were looking for," he says.

Uncertain relief bounces from one EMF to the next. Ratchet seems consoled by the information. The procedure is less dire now, but should still prevent any further meddling. Wheeljack's energon runs cold. He's no medic, but what happened feels more ominous than good.

\- - - - -

_The workhouse is simple, but clean, and the mecha in charge are nice to them. During the day, he sorts scraps of metal into different grades (the Four M's: melting, mining, medical and money). They all get their cubes at night and sleep on padded slats in the backroom. When they do an especially good job, or find a valuable piece, they earn a few credits. He has yet to tap into the account his carrier left behind, but he'll have to soon. Others have started staring at him when he isn't looking down, and his next upgrades ought to help remove some distinctions._

_He misses his carrier; at least he remembers her voice and almost everything she'd say, which is some solace. His spark chamber feels hollow, but the songs and exclamations fill part of the empty space. And he would be lying if he said he doesn't hate the people who took her away, with a heavy, black, angry emotion that fills him in some, too._

_The leader-femme of this place, who goes by the designation Hydratile, likes him enough to let him read what she has in her library, and while it isn't much, it keeps him occupied. He reads instead of recharging, really. In the first orn, recharge came fast and uninterrupted--exhaustion had always kicked in. But now he's got a terrible problem with so many others around, and their dreams and memory relapses pour into his processor without relent each time he tries a quick cycle._

_Two solar cycles into the painful sleeplessness, he sits on the floor in the main room with a datapad on the Well, while Hydratile, on her lounger, drinks something bitter. That's when the other femme appears, stepping into the room through the archway. Hydratile turns as if acknowledging her._

_He's never seen a frame-type quite like hers, nor can he decide what colours she's chosen for it; the idea can't quite solidify in his thoughts. She must be someone important because of the way she moves around the room, kind of graceful and easy. Hydratile looks at him strangely._

_"You're okay?" she asks, dermas pursed._

_He nods, confused. (He fights the urge to look back behind Hydratile, where her guest has moved.)_

_"Checking, lovey. You're staring off into space. Maybe recharge now, hmm? Early start for tomorrow's solar cycle and a big shipment coming in."_

_Soundwave doesn't bother explaining how he cannot because it could mean she stops supporting him, so he gets up to do as Hydratile bids and puts her datapad back on her shelf. The femme behind her gives a tiny wave as he leaves for the backroom. It feels wrong not to wave back._

_That night begins with the unwanted vision of a dance-club, then the clamour of instruments in someone's makeshift band, stories told by an old mech with quills decorating his helm and a heated argument between batchmates. Recharge burns like a brand and he shoots out of it, wiping coolant from his frame. At the same time, the newcomer phases through the walls of the backroom. He freezes. "Curse of Amalion's Spark," Hydratile's favourite novel, makes vengeful spark residue all too real--and it seems a lot like her._

_The femme smiles and drifts closer, servos outstretched. He flinches away from her form (which, now, he realizes, isn't physical) and scrambles towards the other side of the slat, pressed to the wall. He'll have to force himself into recharge if these are the kind of visions his processor responds with. "Who are you," he whispers._

_She laughs, and her frame dances with immaterial energy. "A friend, Soundwave. You can be afraid just this once, but I don't bite."_

_His brow ridges draw together at that, distrustful, even as he lets her servos find his helm. He doesn't think he could stop her--how do you fend off someone who's dead? The incorporeal touch makes all his surface sensors flicker, even blurs his optic feed._

_"When you need to rest a cycle or two, think of what happens here," she orders, "and when you are well and ready to visit with me, just reach out. I am always nearby."_

_Like magic, the river of others in his helm filters to a quiet stream. He is wholly terrified of the spectre and what she's done. But Soundwave nods, and though he has no idea of why she's here, no plan for tomorrow or any day after that, he means it when he says "okay."_

"Just reach out, I am always nearby" has since been established as the unspoken rule; perhaps he doesn't exercise it as often as he could, but Soundwave appreciates being able to rely on someone. He swallows back the stinging betrayal at the fact that Megatron has deserted them--deserted him, here in an alternate temporal plane. Explicitly.

Fine. If not Megatron, he has a greater power to lean upon; but the presence he reaches out for is silent, as if avoiding his seeking mind. He waits to no avail. Defeated, Soundwave withdraws from the boundaries of a realm he's never much cared for (it's the awkward interstice between here and the Well, teeming with unsteady energy). His optic feed slowly recovers from that hazy reality until he can register one of the computer consoles, and the spy considers whether or not the ignoring is intentional. He reached out, and the difference in response strikes a nerve. At least Laserbeak is company--well, in stasis--and Soundwave feels a wry smile curl at his dermas.

This dimension has a strange effect. Surrounded by people, and interacting with them on a mental plane, but undeniably alone. His crystal casing emits a signal of irritation, troubled, like the solitude isn't quite pleasant. He could just stifle it by initiating another light recharge cycle, which would also conserve energon. Comforting as the action might be in theory, there is little chance it will suppress the castaway feel that sinks into his frame, gouging him out; his thought nags that "invisibility" has quickly become "insignificance."

He removes himself a few steps, emotionally, before tackling the small holes in his plan. It is delicately constructed, and he is careful tying strings. All signs point to overlapping two groundbridges at his coordinates in order to combine temporal streams and escape this dimension. Since the Autobots have been cautious to keep that impossible, he has to find someone to bend. Starscream is his working choice, a lucky temporary addition to the inhabitants of the Nemesis (though Arcee was a close second, because he has enough samples and data that he might pass himself as Cliffjumper, and the avenues of entry are already weakened from his last processor breach). One factor makes the difference. Starscream requires less effort. Starscream is familiar, predictable, and as Soundwave has had the chance of witnessing, responds well to a certain breed of manipulation. He is not particularly fond of Starscream's continual presence in his head.

The spy has mapped out which areas of Starscream's processor will be trickiest to navigate. There, the firewalls are too heavily shielded to get through without irreversible damage to the seeker or the link he's created. If he could just loosen the right threads, the barriers keeping him from the seeker's memory would unravel. He may not need to reach that far, but having the option to pick and choose how to exploit is an advantage. Trust is a fragile, vulnerable thing. He just has to cultivate enough of it, unless Starscream recalls without "assistance" that he already has an ally, just on the other side of the space-time wall. Or maybe the Maker will answer him back.

\- - - - -

"Have you located the crash site yet?" Bee asks Ultra Magnus over comm link, from the console on the bridge.

"I've advised Bulkhead and Arcee not to advance unless they can get a clear visual. Warship pods come equipped with guns and we don't know what ship class is responsible for ejecting the escape vessel, nor what damages this one has suffered. If present, the weapon systems may still be operational."

"We've circled the perimeter twice. There's too much debris blocking the sight lines. Moving in without a visual will be our only option, sir," Arcee relates.

"No, Magnus is right, Arcee. The mecha who crashed might be too dangerous to approach blindly. Maybe I can drive out the equipment to do close-range structural scans. I'll check with Ratchet."

"Er...actually, you can't," Smokescreen winces.

"Why not?"

"He's operating--whoa," the mech startles, peering at his console to Bee's right.

"What is it?"

"A new transmission. From the Vosnians. The systems are decrypting it using Ratchet's cipher," Smokescreen announces.

"Play the audial feed on the same console as main comm, so everyone hears it. It might be useful," Bee orders. Smokescreen flashes a thumbs-up in his direction before following instructions. With a _click-chirr_ the transmission comes through, thin static and humming machinery permeating its background noise, but unmistakeably clearer than the last.

 _:: Damn it, zhe Requiem's sensors say zhe pod is open! ::_ howls one German voice. Without interference, this first lilted, feminine tone is crystal-clear. The second speaker brusquely cuts in.

 _:: Stop looking at me like it's my problem, ::_ hisses that second, leading to a screaming match.

_:: Because it is, du brillenschlange-- ::_

_:: Brillenschlange?! At least I can see! You're half-blind! ::_ voice two heightens in pitch and laughs frenetically.

_:: Oh, why don't I do you a favour and give you my perspective-- ::_

_:: Or, you could both put a pin in your competition for Most Asinine Crew Member of the Stellar Cycle and prepare for landing. Can it, space cadets, ::_ snaps a third speaker, whose voice is low, dangerously collected and smooth.

 _:: Zhat is a contest? Oh! Are zhere prizes? ::_ asks the first--

_:: We're going in after him? You're an idiot. Zhe first time we had to catch him was hell. ::_

_:: Speaking to you for more than a klik is hell. Maybe you ought to let things sit in your fuel tank before you blow them out your exhaust. Yes, we're landing. ::_ In the background, obscene noises mocking "exhaust" come through, at which the speaker huffs, annoyed. _:: Tell your moronic twin to offline her vocaliser. As I was trying to say, he'll go straight to the beacon that ship is sending out. Prime trapping environment. ::_

 _:: You just want to go because of your special sparkday bond. You should give up. We never find anyzhing. ::_ teases the first voice. 

_:: And you just want to cease your miserable existence as a mechanical Quintesson, but that will never happen either. Now, if you two patchwork dimwits could siphon some useful information from this conversation? We're heading to surface because if he is contained by the Autobot promise of security, we might be able to use an Prot-ex ray instead of trying to catch him in another stasis pod...what. In the slagging Pit. Is this? ::_

_:: Did you find my cyber-kitten? ::_ queries speaker two, almost jarringly peppy. 

_:: Did you bring a_ cyber-cat _onto my ship? ::_ says the third, equal parts incredulous and angry.

_:: You know, I don't quite remember. Maybe it was a terrorcon. ::_

_:: Eugh, nevermind that. Which one of you slag-suckers set our communications to broadcast? ::_

_:: Wasn't me, ::_ speaker one asserts, _:: Now zhat I think about it, who had zhe command center last shift?-- ::_

 _::_ I _never touched zhe comm controls. Don't point. Stop. Stop it. I WILL BITE YOUR SERVO OFF-- ::_ growls the second mecha, as the first cackles.

_:: I ought to tear both your vocal components out. It was a rhetorical question. You were both on the bridge because you imbeciles let him get out in the first place, and your mistakes are coagulating into a catastrophe, as per usual. Now he might've heard the plan through the escape module's link. Turn off your comms. I'm coming down there. ::_

_:: Slag! Oh, slag. We made her mad! Oh, I don't want her to come down. She's going to yell, ::_ cries the first voice. 

_:: Of course I'm going to yell. I might even do you a favour and carve out your useless optic._ Four hundred thousand shanix _is at stake. Not only did you forget how to shut your whore mouths, but you forgot how we all make our living, which is without a doubt the epitome of stupidity. ::_

 _:: You're a poet and you didn't know it, ::_ mutters voice two.

_:: Blitzwing, pray 'Stro does something unbelievably infuriating before I reach you, because you are begging for a repeat dissection. ::_

_::_ Now _you did it, ::_ whispers "'Stro." "Blitzwing" lets out a harsh vent, and the transmission cuts out sharply. 

"I'm getting a borderline cracked vibe from these guys. Guess they contacted us accidentally," Smokescreen says matter-of-factly.

"Slag everything. This is terrible," Bumblebee groans, his frame sagging.

Arcee laughs over the link, and Smokescreen gives his friend a look of curiosity. "That bad, huh?" he asks (alright, mockingly curious).

"Hey. You try being dispatched on five missions in a row with that psycho as your main obstacle! I'll tell you what happens. Nothing! Getting anything accomplished is impossible around _Blitzwing_ ," Bee grumbles.

"Care to fill me in on who Blitzwing is?" Smokescreen questions Arcee, leaning closer to the console.

"Aside from being the bane of Bumblebee's existence, he's a Decepticon seeker."

"He was a Decepticon," Starscream interrupts, standing in the doorframe with posture that is neither proud nor hesitant. Awkward, more than anything, particularly with the way the conversation drops right off a cliff into silence. Starscream clears his vocalizer and continues. "A capable lieutenant at that, wonderful execution. It would've stayed that way if Megatron hadn't played favourites with Shockwave and his 'lab assistants,' for lack of a better title." He punctuates his words with air quotes.

" 'Con experiments," Arcee huffs through the console.

Starscream nods, avoiding eye contact with anyone. "An associate of Shockwave's headed the task. Two alt modes would be much handier than one, except for the default fragmented processor that comes with the ability. They selected maybe six candidates for the trial of the triple-changer conversion, and Blitzwing was one of the only ones to survive. If you can call it surviving. Why is he so important?"

The seeker earns a few suspicious looks from his question, but Bumblebee seems the most inclined to give him answers, and the speedster gestures to the console. "One of the Vosnians addressed him by name in a transmission we just received. Looks like he's on board. Knock Out and Ratchet did say you didn't recognize any of the voices, though."

"Exactly. I'm not familiar with post-procedure Blitzwing. He was transferred to another superior's division," Starscream frowns, annoyed at the insinuation, and his tone is more spiteful than not. Bee takes it in stride and refrains from pushing.

"So maybe we have 'Blitzwing' covered...but that leaves two mecha unidentified." Smokescreen crosses his arms out of concern. "I don't want to wait until they get here to find out what we're facing."

"True enough. At least Blitzwing isn't affiliated with the Decepticons, is that right?" Arcee queries.

The seeker hums. "Not officially, not anymore. Megatron decided he was too unstable for combat. The last news I'm aware of places Blitzwing on Antilla, where the troops discharged him, and the planet's since suffered a plague of cosmic rust. Decepticon databases would have assumed all contacts on the planet were permanently offlined--" Starscream pauses abruptly. He stalks towards Bumblebee and Smokescreen, optics on the floor and narrowed in contemplation. "How many voices are in the second transmission?"

"Three," Smokescreen supplies.

"You may be able to account for two. Blitzwing was _one_ of the only experiments to persist, and he was also a split-spark. Naturally, they chose candidates with similar qualities for the procedure; if Blitzwing managed to evade the scourge of Antilla, it's likely his twin and fellow test subject did, too. They might have decided to ally closely after their...discharge."

"No. Primus, not two of them," Bumblebee mutters. "Handling one psychotic triple-changer is enough. Do you know the designation of his twin?"

"Astrotrain. I can't help you there. She was never part of the aerial forces, neither before nor after reformatting."

" 'Stro, Astrotrain," Smokescreen interjects. "Makes sense. So we have a pair of presumably-dead science blunders, a mystery ringleader, and a registered deep-space ship, all with absolutely zero connection to each other. Pretty logical, there." The sarcasm is unexpected by all parties, and Smokescreen grimaces, almost angry at the cold wash over his sensors. If he wasn't bothered by his own irritability before, he is now. (And if Wheeljack is any indication, it's not just him experiencing fluxes.)

"You're welcome," Starscream snips pointedly.

"Hey, Bee? I really don't know what you want us to do about this," Bulkhead's voice relates from the console, "because a visual sure isn't happening. Arcee and Magnus just did another roundabout and we're set up 360 right now, all angles covered. We can't get to the pod without exposing our positions."

Before Bumblebee can reply, Starscream waves a servo nonchalantly. "If it's all the same to you, I could make an overhead pass of this...pod." The seeker cuts off any dissonance. "Think what you will, but I don't see any danger in taking my offer. I retrieve whatever it is you Autobots are after, and you fulfill the deal you made me three solar cycles ago, at no cost or risk to either of us."

Smokescreen and Starscream each bristle as Bumblebee weighs this. To the latter, it might be taken as anticipation, but they are each attuned to the prickling static around the black-and-yellow mech. "Alright. Your tracking beacon stays active," Bee states, firm as a command. Smokescreen is ready for his clapback to surface this time, and promptly wrestles to keep his frustration in check, regardless of whether they should trust Starscream to survey the pod or not.

The seeker rolls his optics. "Of course."

"And the general comm link stays open."

"Fine."

"I'll send you the coordinate range in a databurst," Bumblebee says, heading to the console beside the one Smokescreen occupies, "head west from base."

Starscream makes certain to take measured steps on his way out of the command center, but they deteriorate into a fast, harsh pace once he is out of hearing range and en route to the flight deck. He might be the smallest bit exhilarated, so close to flying after several solar cycles, but he is also incredibly aware of that idiot presence, who has some explaining to do.

"What in the Pit did you do to the Autobot?"

 _Nothing_ illegal, the voice retorts, self-satisfied and audacious.

Starscream raises his volume quite unintentionally. "That's not an answer."

 _And "persuasion" is too vague to satisfy you, so consider "nothing illegal" a reassuring substitute,_ it counters.

Oh-ho, he doesn't know whether he's _had_ it with that snarky tone or whether he wants to laugh, but focuses on the opportunity just ahead, infinitely larger and more important than some glitch. "You are anything but reassuring," Starscream remarks, off-handedly now, because his ailerons shift, surrounded by Cybertron's atmosphere for the first time in solar cycles, and _damn_ he enjoys freedom.

The seeker waits patiently for the coordinates to upload, imprecise as they might be; knowing that he's able to take off without threat from weapons systems or marked boundaries is enough. Once the data transfers to his HUD, Starscream flings himself from the edge of the flight deck and holds off until the last second to transform, the momentary rush worth the risk.

 _Careful_ , the voice warns.

Starscream laughs. "As though it affects _you._ Here's a thought. I do not care for or require your advice, so keep it to yourself."

 _The Autobots do not expect contact until you reach the crash site. What is your estimated arrival?_ it asks, changing subjects with a hint of irritation.

"One klik, if I hadn't already decided five. I intend to savour this, you insipid thing, not to conform to Autobot time constraints or have a drawn-out conversation with a virus," Starscream teases. As much as he hates to admit it, flying, especially alone, puts him in an awfully and uncharacteristically good mood.

_Five kliks is not the lengthiest extension. You might be able to stretch your time further._

"Is your cortical circuitry malfunctioning? The location of the crash means key information, and I would rather obtain it sooner than later."

_You have suspicions about the pod._

"No. I have suspicions about the leader of this rag-tag team, know-it-all, to which the vessel may offer clues. Taking up two triple-changers is an instant tell." 

__

_It indicates...?_

__

"First, their status. Whomever can house, maintain and provide energon for frames that large must have a stable source of income or some kind of network. Then there's the issue of patience; Primus knows Blitzwing is a handful."

__

_So you lied to the Autobot, then._

__

"Oh, that's not _lying_. I hardly saw him and Shockwave was responsible for his oversight anyway--besides the point. This person is calculating, educated, if they can see potential in those two, maybe a dignitary, if the Earth dialects are anything to go off of. I don't see what kind of Vosnian dignitary would be on Earth."

__

_Calculating is an interesting choice of words. Are you wary of facing the Vosnians?_

__

Starscream tsks. "Wary. You're asking if I'm afraid to meet them," he accuses. Silence returns to him, and he scoffs. "Lucky you. I've decided that doesn't offend me. No. I merely suspect they could pose a threat to the Autobots, and that leaves me in a position to make contingent decisions."

__

_:: Starscream, you're positioned over the coordinate range. Transmit your visuals once you find that pod. It's heavily damaged and its mother ship is a warship about the size of the Nemesis, maybe larger, ::_ Bee contacts him.

__

"Well, I managed to get here in a klik after all," the seeker mutters. _:: Certainly, ::_ is all he comms back. "You'd think they would tell me that beforehand."

__

He flies a wide circle, monitoring the air, and when the quality of his vision changes minutely, Starscream scans the area beneath. Smoke from the downed vessel will have clouded the sky. Sure enough, the remnants of a flight-capable pod are visible amid towering panels, probably the remains of a building's walls. The seeker marks the location of each Autobot life signature on his HUD to keep track of the three off-base members (call it paranoia, but he does not rule out the possibility of a spontaneous run for his execution, and Starscream refuses to be outnumbered).

__

"The outer armour is almost destroyed, inner compartment still intact," he muses, picking at the wreckage and examining the mangled outside. "This thing did not come from a warship."

__

_What do you make of it?_

__

Starscream shrugs in response, then sends a sharp pulse at the presence, indicating that the curiosity in his field ought to stop expanding beyond his own, and quickly. It retreats and this time, he grins at the tinge of _apology._ "Could be a diplomatic vessel, perhaps one intended for the off-world colonies, or a mobile business. But the mechanics here are too customised for a mass-generated warship."

__

A life signature, dim, onlines to the seeker's left, about forty kilometers away from any of the Autobot signatures or his own. Starscream frowns and turns towards the source, consulting his HUD to look at its position more closely. It disappears just as swiftly as he checks. His wings hike high, plating expelled outward. "Tell me that wasn't you," he says, drawn out and guarded.

__

Snickering reverberates through the secluded part of his processor. _No, it was not. It may be a sensor anomaly. You might ignore it._

__

Starscream shakes his helm. "Wrong again. Someone told me--well, more or less, he--nevermind--someone informed me on several occasions that an aberration is never what it seems."

__

_Oh,_ it replies, and seems perturbed by something. But Starscream's attention is already caught with the reappearance of the same signature, codestamp and all, except now to his right, this time twenty-seven kilometers out. The presence recovers from its trip-up. _Are you going to tell the Autobots?_

__

_:: Starscream to base. I've located the pod, transmitting coordinates. No life forms nearby. Your ground team should be clear to investigate, and I will be back in no more than ten kliks, ::_ he says.

__

Smokescreen databursts a quick "confirmed," and Starscream takes to the air again. He wants to make the most of this occasion--their "deal" does not stand guaranteed. _You aren't informing them?_ the voice asks, not so much surprised as interested.

__

"My, my, aren't you observant," Starscream taunts, increases his altitude, and deigns to forget something has invaded his processor for the next 9.6 kliks.

__

\- - - - -

__

"Mechanical Quintesson," Bumblebee cackles.

__

"That's just brutal," Smokescreen cries in adjunct laughter.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anytime i write solus i gotta put on that good andra day  
> this has been another episode of Screw Canon entitled "Solus Is Too Cool Not To Be Here" and i'm amending death to "death" with my magical fish hook _you're welcome_  
>  "brillenschlange" means "spectacle cobra" and it's pretty much an insult for someone with glasses  
> please review i love you guys a lot and your reviews are really encouraging :) i value u and your opinions and speculation and u are amazing


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